


The Revenge Business

by WeNeedARuse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Annabelle-mentions, Blood, Blow Jobs, Death, Dual-timeline, Dutch is conflicted, Eventual Smut, Hand Job, Hosea Matthews-mentions, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past, Past Relationships, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rated for future chapters, Revenge, Slow Burn, Tension, Various Van Der Linde gang members, because it's me so you know there will be porn, bottom dutch, ish, mild gun play, multi-chapter, one small instance of heterosexual sex, slight timeline fuckery, slow sex now apparently, sneaking that one in there, sorry - Freeform, tags to be added as and when, vandermorgan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-05-14 17:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19278283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: An alternative reason as to why Dutch killed Colm's brother, and started a war.Takes place both just after Arthur is kidnapped, and 15 years ago.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay.
> 
> This is going to be my first multi-chapter fic in this fandom and I a-scared. I had this idea for a little while, with help from a Mango, and it just grew and grew. Hopefully I can get it all out, but it's a different way of doing things for me so it's going to be a learning curve.
> 
> There will be porn. Just not in this chapter unfortunately. Dutch and Arthur aren’t even in the same vicinity. 
> 
> This is also from Dutch's POV which, I'm telling you, is so hard to write so I hope I've done him justice.
> 
> It's only the first chapter, small scene setting so I know it's not up to much, but I promise it will get better! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos as always will be lovely (and helpful)
> 
> Oh, and the title will most likely change. I am SO BAD AT THEM, and my brain just wouldn't work. So please accept this shitty title for now.

Dutch Van Der Linde hasn’t always been the man he is today. Once, he was reckless, and fearless, and would have had no qualms about running back there and shooting a hole in Colm O’Driscoll’s head. 

And now, when he wants to the most, when his entire being is screaming at him to do just that, he can’t.

And Arthur is gone,

Caught, because of Dutch’s own goddamn stupidity.

And Dutch is rage and pain. 

He sends Micah off ahead, an excuse but a good one, to let Hosea know what’s happened. So that Dutch can think. So that he can try and calm a mind that’s raving with a hundred different thoughts at once, a hundred different ways he could have played this. So that he can remain calm, and clear, and level headed.

Even though he wants to rip the skin from Colm’s body. He wants to choke the life from him.

God, he needs to clear his head. Think. Think.

But he looks to his left, automatic, to check Arthur is there, and the realisation is excruciating.

That he’s not there by his side, when Arthur is always there. And his mind spirals, when he stops and thinks,

How Arthur is always there, large and imposing and impossible to ignore.  
How he grew from an awkward boy to a handsome young man right in front of his eyes. How he became tall and strong and violent and alive.

How he came to him when he didn’t even know what he wanted. What Dutch was.  
How he looked that first night. How his eyes widened, first in shock and then desire. How his cheeks flushed when Dutch told him exactly what he wanted to do, exactly how this worked.

How he begged for more.

How he became Dutch’s boy. Dutch’s rabid dog. Dutch’s enforcer, sharpshooter, henchman, and lost nothing of himself. 

How he became, in all and every way, his.

And Colm O’Driscoll thinks he can come in and rip that from him?

Thinks he can take the one thing...the only thing...because of something that happened fifteen years ago.

No. Not acceptable.

Not Colm. Not Connor. No.

He won’t think about that.

So,

Dutch shakes his head, rubs a hand over his face, rolls his shoulders. Tries anything he has in his arsenal of coping mechanisms. Forces himself to not think, not let it spill over,

There’ll be time for that later.

He takes a breath, and enters camp.

“Mr Matthews, Mr Marston, Mr’s Smith and Escuella, with me please!” 

He strides across camp, gesturing to his boys and enters his tent, pushing Molly out with a flick of his hand. He keeps his back to them as they file in, pressing his hands to the table besides his bed and bowing his head. 

“As you may know,” He begins quietly. Not because of the reasons he usually has for it. Not to engage so that your audience has to lean closer, hang on to your every word, no, not this time. He begins quietly because if he speaks any louder they’ll hear the truth in his voice.

A truth he has fought for his life to hide.

“Colm set us up,” He hears scoffing, mutters of acknowledgement from behind him. “It was a trap. They got Arthur.” 

“Well we gotta go get him. What the hell are we stood around for?” John, of course it’s John. Because, despite all of the animosity between them, the anger, the resentment, John loves Arthur more than any man here.

Dutch could almost laugh when he remembers he was afraid of that once.

He turns and reaches out, pats John on the shoulder, keeps his hand there as a warning. Stay. He’s about to speak when Hosea steps up,

“We can’t just run in there all guns blazing. They’ll pick us off one by one until there’s nothing left.” John is tense under his fingers, he can feel him shaking. 

“So we leave him to die?”

“No!” It comes out louder than he wanted and Dutch has to cover himself quickly.

They can’t know.

“No. We won’t do that. We don’t do that. But what we’ve got to do is make a plan.” The other two are quiet, listening, and Dutch has a moment in all the insanity to thank them for it. For being ready for his word. “Javier, Charles, I want you to see if you can pick up the trail. You know where Arthur was, see if you can follow. But don’t get too close. Don’t do anything stupid.” 

They nod, ready, exit the tent without another word.

Soldiers.

Dutch turns back to John, whose eyes are boring into him with an intensity that reminds him so sharply of Arthur that he thinks he might lose it.

“John, ask around. Valentine, Strawberry...they got to be holed up somewhere. Be discreet.” It’s obvious that John wants to do more, and that’s why he gives him this task.

To keep him out of the way.

“And son,” John turns, eyes wide and angry. He knows he’s being sent on a wild goose chase. “Be careful.” 

And then it’s just him and Hosea.

Dutch waits, waits until he can hear horses, waits until he knows they’re gone, and pushes past Hosea.

“Where do you think you’re going?” That tone. Oh, he knows him so well.

Dutch keeps his voice low, almost a whisper.

“I’m not sitting here and letting Colm think he’s won. He wants me, not Arthur. I’m not letting him be collateral damage in a fight that has nothing to do with him.”

A lie. 

Nothing to do with him, directly.

Indirectly, well…

“Dutch, you can’t go to him.” Dutch cocks his head at that, stares Hosea down. 

“You think you can stop me?” 

“Old friend, I know I couldn’t.” Hosea touches him then, the only man in this camp confident enough to do so without fear. “This is what he wants. If you go out there, you’re going to die. And where will we be then?”

“If I don’t, Arthur is going to die.”

“You don’t know that. Arthur is resourceful, he’s clever, he’s not going to be held for long. We taught him that.” He wants to be calmed by the words, soothed by them. He wants, so very suddenly, for Hosea to tell him what to do. 

But that’s not how it works. Not how they work.

“I need to go, Hosea. You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I do.” Hosea sits down on the bed and all of a sudden Dutch realises that he’s looking old. Not just old, sick. And it’s heartache on top of heartache.

So he does what he always does.

Locks away that thought in a small part of his mind. Refuses to think about it any further.

“Colm’s won this round and you hate it. Of course you do, it’s who you are. But you’re just following his lead now. You go out there and he’s won again. And I lose you.” 

“And you think my life is worth more than Arthur’s?” He can hear the danger in his own voice, and he knows Hosea has picked up on it because he sighs, rubs at his eyes.

“I didn’t say that. I’m just asking you to think, Dutch.”

The bastard thing. The kicker of this. Is that Hosea is right. He can’t go out there and demand to see Colm, he’ll get shot first instance. The O’Driscolls want Dutch more than anything. He wouldn’t even make it to Colm, some trigger happy peon will get him, backed up by an army.

He knows how Colm works.

They ran together a couple of times after all. A long time ago now. 

“Leave me.” He says quietly, an admission that Hosea is right. He watches absently as his old friend stands and walks to the tent flap, pushing it aside, he turns

“What I don’t understand is, why Arthur?” Dutch goes rigid at the seemingly innocent question. Because nothing, absolutely nothing, with Hosea is innocent. The consummate conman. Nothing about him isn’t ever thought out, nothing is thrown away. It’s why they made such a great team.

“Opportunity.” He says.

“I don’t think so Dutch. Colm planned it this way, planned to keep you talking. I just don’t understand why. If it’s revenge, he already got Annabelle, years past. So why Arthur?” 

He can’t answer him. 

And so they just stare at each other, each locked in their own falsehoods. 

Until Hosea shakes his head, as if he’s disappointed him, and walks away.

And Dutch,

Dutch sits down on his bed, leans forward and puts his head in his hands.

Because he knows exactly why. He knows how Colm works. He knows what he knows. 

And it is revenge. Revenge plotted almost 15 years. Picked at the prime time when Dutch thought he was safe.

Revenge for Connor O’Driscoll,

Colms brother. 

For what Dutch Van Der Linde did to him before he died.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Because there’s something else about Connor O’Driscoll that’s different to his brother. It’s not the green eyes, the shock of auburn hair, the height or the strength.
> 
> It’s the hunger."
> 
>  
> 
> Set 15 years before the events of Red Dead Redemption 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two already!
> 
> So, please, stay with me. It's going to seem weird at first but I promise I have it all planned out in my head. This is set 15 years before Colm takes Arthur.
> 
> It's also young Dutch (you can choose what facial hair you want him to have)
> 
> There's not much I can say about this, except that I hope you like where it's going!!
> 
> Vandermorgan will happen! 
> 
> So, yes. This was especially hard to write because all words seemed to escape me, so any mistakes are all mine entirely and I really should know better.
> 
> And thank you! The comments I've received already have been such a help to me, and really made me excited to write more. Please, please keep them coming. They really do mean a lot to us writers.
> 
> I think that's it? 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> OH. It's really long as well. sorry!

Back then things were different. Looser. 

Back then he and Colm ran together numerous times, small jobs and heists. Nothing big, but enough to be civil to one another, to know that if they needed extra guns, there was always someone readily available. 

All in all, things between Dutch and Colm had been civil, or as civil as two leaders could be. 

And Dutch was that, he knew this now. He was a leader. He was their leader.

Hosea and Bessie and Annabelle,

And Arthur.

He kept them safe, he kept them fed. He kept them from the law. He took what he did seriously. 

His job.

Back then there was no Van Der Linde Gang. They weren’t his ‘boys’. That came later. 

After Arthur made his choice, certainly.

And after the bank job, after Connor, after Annabelle. 

And Dutch, even in his most solitary moments, when there’s no-one around, no-one to pierce his thoughts, see him as anything other than what he chooses to present, 

Even then he doesn’t like to think about that.

 

***

 

“What do you mean?” Dutch sinks down into the armchair in his new room, enjoying the fact that for once they had a nice house to live in for a while. With room enough for Hosea and Bessie, newly married and sickeningly in love. Space for him and Annabelle, for Arthur and anyone else in need of a home, even for a few days. 

Space to take a breath.

“I’m busy.” Arthur leans against the door frame and for a moment Dutch lets himself just look at him. Twenty years old and so tall now that he almost fills the empty space. 

Handsome. Tall. Strong.

Headstrong.

Dutch purses his lips,

“I’m sorry? I don’t think I heard you correct?” He sees Arthur shift, awkwardly, and smiles inwardly. Good. He should be nervous. 

He can’t be seen as being too lenient towards him.

It begs questions.

“I said I’m busy. There’s...I’m meeting someone, tonight...in town.” 

Well, shit.

Of course. He’s twenty. There’s going to be women that catch his eye. He’s not going to be satisfied with whores, paid for and discarded. 

“Cancel it.” Dutch plucks a cigar out of the drawer besides him and pats his trouser pockets for a match. 

“I can’t.” 

Cigar in mouth, Dutch looks at him,

See’s his eyes drift to his lips.

Danger.

“This is business.” He finally finds a match and takes a deep breath, smoke filling his lungs. “Cancel it.” Arthur scratches his cheek, his beard newly growing in, and shakes his head apologetically. 

“Dutch.” 

He could order him to, he knows that. But he doesn’t want it to be that way. 

You can’t create a land of freedom, and push down the men you want to fill it. That’s not the way he’s going to do this. 

Still,

He makes him wait. Because he can. And when Arthur leaves, Dutch breaths in a sigh, stands, and gets ready for the job ahead. 

 

***

 

It’s supposed to be an easy job. A quick in and out. But somehow, Colm’s jobs never go that way and when the bullets start flying, winging past Dutch’s shoulders, they split. Colm and his croney in one direction,

Dutch and Connor in the other. 

Dutch knows this town, knows any town they live near, scopes it out and finds the places to rob, the people to con, and the best spots to hide.

He guides Connor through the maze of streets, winding back alleys until they come to the abandoned shed Dutch found in his first visit to the town. It’s not big, he expected only himself or he and Arthur would ever have to use it, but it’s good enough for now. He drags Connor in by the scruff of his neck and closes the door.

“Fucking lawmen, I’ll shoot every last fucking one of them!” 

Dutch rolls his eyes in the dark.

You could call the O’Driscoll brothers a lot of things, but smart was never top of the list.

“Be quiet you goddamned idiot.” He hisses, shoving past him as best he can to press his eye against the gaps in the wood. He can’t see anyone, but he can hear them. Back in town. With any luck, they’ve followed Colm.

Dutch turns after a while, satisfied for now that they’ll be safe as long as they don’t move, and leans back against the wood. His eyes adjust quickly to the dark and he makes out the shape of Connor in front of him, close enough that he can feel the heat from his body, hear the short sharp inhales he takes as he catches his breath. 

“Well,” He says, voice so low that it’s barely audible. “They turned up quick. Isn’t that interesting.”

He sees Connor shrug.

Yes.

“Almost too quick.”

Still Connor only shrugs.

Say what you will, Dutch thinks, but he’s loyal.

“I guess we’re here for the duration then.” Dutch can think of a hundred different things he’d rather be doing right now. But he should make the most of it. “Know any good limericks?”

“Fuck off.” 

Dutch grins in the dark.

Connor seems a little too defensive. A little too wound up. And Dutch thinks he knows why, but he never does anything unless he’s absolutely sure. 

So he leans back,

And waits for Connor to come to him.

It doesn’t take long.

“Where’s Arthur?” 

“I sent him on another job, figured Colm didn’t need both of us for this.” He watches carefully as Connor nods, brings his thumb to his mouth and starts to chew on his nail. 

“No. Only you.” 

“Only me.” 

There’s a tension Dutch can’t quite catch. Something familiar yet fractured. He looks to Connor again, 

“You seem nervous, Connor.” He says softly, tracking the way Connors eyes go everywhere around the small darkened space but at him. 

“No, I ain’t. Just...don’t like lawmen.” 

“No.” He’s pretty sure of it now, tests the water. “It’s something else. You nervous about being here with me? Or about me finding out Colm tried to set me up?” 

“Dutch, he didn’t.”

Oh, he did.

A set up from the start. And Dutch was too stupid to have noticed right away.

There’ll be time later to berate himself for that, and adapt so it never happens again. 

“Because I would be nervous too. If I was trapped in a room with a man who had every right on this earth to beat me down.” He pushes from the wall, crowds Connor back against the other one, mere feet away. 

The sound of Dutch removing his gun from its holster is almost impossibly loud, a sound that twitches through his every nerve, sends them tingling, on fire.

“I wanted to tell you.” 

That stops him, gives him pause. Because it sounds pretty damn honest. 

He presses his hand to the wood besides Connors head, and leans close.

“Really now?” Connors bright green eyes, prettier than any mans should be, gaze right into his and he’s on the cusp of saying something. Saying something so stupid that Dutch might have to kill him for it.

Because there’s something else about Connor O’Driscoll that’s different to his brother. It’s not the green eyes, the shock of auburn hair, the height or the strength.

It’s the hunger. 

Dutch had noticed it months back. The way he looked at him, the way he moved close whenever they were together. He’d noticed it, acknowledged it, and filed it all away for future use. Something he could play with, should the need ever arise.

It certainly seems to have risen now.

“Tell me then, what was brother Colm trying to achieve?” 

“If I tell you, he’s like to kill me. You know being his brother don’t matter, if he finds out I snitched.” Connor smells of sweat and gun oil and fear. Dutch lets his gaze travel over him before he speaks.

“I understand, Connor.” He says softly. Despite what he thought earlier, Connor isn’t really stupid. He’s worldly, like Colm. If Dutch comes on too strong, he’ll back away. 

It’s all a game.

In the end.

“But Colm obviously set this up, expecting I’ll...what? Get killed? Get caught?” Connor wets his lips, looks away. Get caught then. 

“Yet you came with me.” Push just enough and they’ll break.

“He got contacted, lawmen two states over. Said they’d give him $4000 and look the other way if we help them get you.” $4000? The price on his head is already going up. “I didn’t want to do it, I said we needed you more than we need that money but you know what Colm’s like.” 

“A businessman.” He says with a sneer

“A bastard.” Spoken with venom. If Dutch had ever been blessed with brothers of his own, he expects he’d speak about them exactly the same way. 

“Thank you.” He says, leaning back, giving him room to breathe. “I appreciate your honesty.”

“You’re as bad as him.” 

It’s Dutch’s turn to shrug. He doesn’t care so much for insults now, considering he got what he wanted with almost no issue. He pats Connors shoulder,

Then,

Feels him shift.

And the answer is there.

The game Dutch played has become something else. 

He looks into Connor’s eyes and sees the indecision there, the fear. He hates it. 

Because he recognises it.

He pushes Connor’s hand away when he reaches to touch his wrist. Pushes him back, hard, when he tries to lean forwards. Wraps his hand around his throat, bruising. 

And his other hand, still wrapped around his pistol, runs down the length of Connor’s trembling body. Until it reaches the hard outline in his pants.

Dutch cocks the gun.

“You hard for me, Connor O’Driscoll?” He hears the threat in his voice, and feels his own cock stiffen. “You that kind of boy?” 

“I ain’t.” 

No. Dutch thinks, and I’m not either.

But,

Blue eyes, dirty blonde hair…

He’s distracted, distracted enough for Connor to take advantage, for him to cup his hand over Dutch’s erect cock and squeeze hard.

“You don’t seem to be minding so much.” Dutch swallows, looking down at the display between them.

It’s been a long, long time since...

“I don’t fuck boys.” He says, rocking slowly into Connor’s clumsy grasp.

“I ain’t a boy.” 

No.

It’s been years.

It happens quickly after that. In seconds Connor is on his knees, Dutch’s cock in his mouth,

It’s dangerous and it’s stupid and it’s desperate. 

Dutch thrusts hard into that willing mouth, like it’s made for this. He fucks it, destroys it, balls tightening, legs spread, one hand in his hair, the other holding the gun to his head. 

Last time Dutch did this he swore it would never happen again. 

He comes hard, pulling out to empty over Connor’s upturned face.

Symbolic.

He laughs.

Holsters his gun and swipes his fingers through his own come, liking the way it glistens in the moonlight. He tilts Connor’s face up even more.

And 

He wants to hate himself for this but he can’t, not really, not if he goes deep and analyses it. Because it feels too good to hate. The control, the heat, his mouth. 

Too good.

He pulls Connor to standing and shoves his hand unceremoniously down his pants, gripping his straining cock. He can tell by the surprised gasp that he didn’t expect reciprocation.

But he can be forgiven for that,

After all, he doesn’t know Dutch very well. 

He strokes him rough until he comes, legs going from under him so that he almost has to hold him up. Pressed together so tight it would be impossible to know if they were fighting or fucking.

They leave before sun up, before the lawman have a chance to regroup. They leave with little words exchanged but a promise. That if Colm ever plans something like this again, Connor is to come to him.

And tell him everything.

 

***

 

Back at the house he finds Arthur in his room, laying back on his bed with a book-one of Dutch’s actually-held aloft. He puts it down when Dutch enters, 

“How’d the job go?” 

He stretches as he asks the question, arms above his head, whole body arching. So unconsciously sensual it’s maddening. Dutch runs his fingers over the book cover, flips to the front page.

“Fine.” He murmurs, noncommittally. 

“Any problems?” He can hear the surprise in his voice and stamps down a smile.

“None.”

Silence.

Then Arthur looks up and him, head tilted,

And Dutch imagines him covered in his come. He imagines him on his knees. He imagines him grinning up at him and begging for more.

He pushes that away too.

He will never think that about him again.

“So you didn’t need me?” Arthurs question breaks through his anger.

“Oh Arthur.” He says softly, and with more truth then he wants to admit. “I will always need you.”


	3. Chaper 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set 15 years before the events of RDR2. Chapter 3!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy this is a long one. It might not seem like it's going anywhere but I do have a plan!
> 
> Please excuse the one instance of hetro sex, it was for the plot! I apologise.
> 
> Spelling and grammar mistakes are all mine, I'm still tired from my birthday week so I know I've missed a few!
> 
> Comments and kudos are as always welcome, but also needed. This is a massive departure for me (in terms of Vandermorgan) and I really want to make sure I'm getting it right! I know this is a million times longer then you guys are used to from me, but it is going somewhere :)
> 
> Anyhoo, enjoy!

(15 years ago)

 

Weeks go by without further word from Connor O’Driscoll and Dutch manages to compartmentalise. Tell himself that what happened happened but will not happen again. He doesn’t need to think on it any more, a moment of madness, that’s all.

So.

And so,

They’re still in the house, although they’ve been joined by Billy and Crornelius McIvor, two brothers who’ve worked for Dutch before- in various unsavoury ways, hiding out from the law for a few days. And Hosea has a good thing going with one of the bankers in town, something that’s already paying off in small quantities and at any quiet moment Dutch can hear him at the other end of the house, singing softly to himself. A sure sign that he’s in the best of spirits.

And Arthur?

Arthur is spending a lot of time away from them.

With her.

Another thing Dutch chooses to compartmentalise. 

Because if he didn’t.

If he thought on it too long…

No. 

He’s spoken to her once. This Mary. Insipidly pretty little thing with hard eyes, eyes that seem to brook no compromise. Dutch has met women like her before. They never last. 

They’re not built for it.

But he spoke to her. He’d gone down a ways from the house to enjoy a cigar in peace, the moon full and the stars out, and she’d been there, sitting on the moss covered bench, skirts all gathered.

“He’ll never leave us for you.”

A harsh thing to say. Cruel.

But something about her made him feel like being cruel.

“He wants out of the life.” She’d shot back, a girl with spirit at least. Dutch leant against a tree, lit his cigar, and looked at her.

His heart was thudding.

The thought...the very thought…

No.

He smiled at her.

“Is that what he’s been telling you?” 

Ah.

She looked away, turned her head as if he wasn’t there.

Bad move.

“Let me guess,” He could hear the cruelty in his voice but couldn’t stop it. He doesn’t even know now if he really wanted to stop it. “He says he wants to leave. He says he wants only you and nothing else. He says you are the only thing, the moon, the stars, the breath in his lungs,” 

She had turned to him. Defiant.

“All these words spoken panting in your ear, while he slides his hand up your skirts as you mewl and writhe under him…” She’d stood then, arm outstretched as if to slap him. In an instant he’d gripped her wrist and held it away. Slender bones beneath lily white skin.

“You’re a bastard Dutch Van Der Linde.”

Yes, quite likely.

He’d let go of her. He’d never laid hand on a woman and he never would. His anger though,

It was fire in his lungs.

He stepped back.

“You’ve had your fun, your little bit of rough that I’m sure Daddy just hates the thought of you being near.” A glance away. Of course he was right. He could always read people. It was his gift. “But listen here, girl, and go back to Daddy. He knows best.”

“I love Arthur.” She had said it so weak. A little girl playing at being grown.

“I’m sure you do. But you don’t know him.”

Not like me.

She’d walked away, all lace skirts and indignation. And Dutch had stayed, long enough for the night to cool, for the rain to come.

For Arthur.

But he hadn’t showed.

 

***

It’s summer, birds singing, sun shining summer. The kind of summer he used to wish for as a boy, stuck in the damp of a dreary midwestern upbringing, with a mother who hated him and a father who got himself killed before he had chance to teach him how to be a man.

The kind of summer that makes the world beautiful. And full of promise.

And Dutch feels full of promise. 

So when Annabelle slips into his bed, he doesn’t think of pushing her away.

Not this time.

Not with the birds singing.

And Arthur in the room next door.

“Are you after something, my dear?” He’s still half asleep, and half hard on a dream about green eyes turning blue, red hair turning dark, as she straddles him, pulling up her skirts and slipping him inside.

Annabelle.

He chose her because she’s beautiful. So beautiful, with her dark skin and her darker eyes, that she stands out. People notice when they’re seen out together.

People notice.

He chose her because she’s beautiful, unobtrustive, doesn’t question, and…

“Dutch! Oh, oh…”

And because she’s loud.

His own defense against even the barest hint of rumour.

And during the act she gets louder, calling out his name in increasing pitch. And, yes, he knows who can hear them.  
Brothers plotting in the drawing room. Hosea eating breakfast with his wife. Arthur asleep in the room next to his.

Asleep, no, maybe.

She rides him hard, chasing after her own pleasure, so that all he has to really do is lay back and let her go. Hand pressed hard between her legs.

He’s never selfish. He prides himself on this. He gives pleasure even if he doesn’t really receive it, beyond the normal physical release. He does have an appetite. Just not for what’s on his plate.

Still, 

he has to admit, as she shakes around his cock, his fingers, her nails raking his chest…

It is a boost to the ego.

But, if he stops and thinks,

Stops,

He knows.

It’s a shield, too.

A final cry and she collapses on top of him, a wounded animal, a broken girl pressing kisses to his throat. 

He pushes her away, rises from the bed.

“Stay.” Her voice is husky, a man would be crazy to refuse.

Dutch has often been called crazy.

“I have things to do, my dear. I can’t spend all day in bed with you.” He tugs his trousers on, his shirt, waistcoat.

He feels more himself fully dressed.

He doesn’t know why that is.

“Dutch, please…” 

“I said no Annabelle. Don’t push me.” He leaves her exposed on the bed. He knows she’s going to cry. And the worst thing is, it doesn’t even penetrate him.

Not like…

“Mornin’” 

He’s mussed, half asleep, heavy lidded eyes and haystack hair. 

When did he become so handsome?

It’s cruelty, Dutch thinks as he brushes past Arthur to take an empty coffee cup, fill it.

It’s cruelty that he’s there, always there.

A man can only take so much.

“You’re up early my boy!” He sounds more jovial than he feels. Sometimes the act is the hardest part. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

Arthur eyes him, then looks away, a faint blush. 

“Walls are thin, Dutch.” He mumbles it, like he’s embarrassed. And a small part of Dutch is wickedly pleased. 

“It is only a beautiful and natural act between a man and a woman,” The blush deepens. Arthur has the most honest complexion of any man he knows. 

The urge to reach out is maddening.

“You should try it sometime.” Arthur startles at that. Uncomfortatble. Dutch half wants to ask and half wants to walk away. It’s as if he can feel that this conversation is going to turn bad for him. And still,

“What about that Mary girl?”

Arthur wets his lips.

“It ain’t like that with us.”

“Why not? Won’t let you between those prim little thighs? To well brought up to take it rough?”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” It’s not the first time Arthur’s gotten angry with him, it’s not even the first time this week. Arthur isn’t one to shy away from saying how he feels.

They taught him that.

Only,

Arthur doesn’t seem committed to the anger. It lacks his usual fire.

Oh, wishful thinking Dutch.

“I apologise, I wasn’t aware it was true love.” 

Silence.

For too long.

As Arthur looks at anything but him,

And Dutch’s heart climbs up his throat.

“You going to marry her Arthur?”

“I’m gonna marry her.”

“Why?”

“Cause it’s the right thing to do.”

If there was ever a moment Dutch was going to lose control of himself, he thinks it’s this one. This...thing. This awful, disgusting, wrong thing that he has for Arthur. This thing that’s crept up on him the last few months, seeped into his every moment, invaded his thoughts, his ability to do anything, this thing is going to come to a head and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

Because he sees him for what he is now.

And what he is, Dutch wants.

And what he sees, Dutch desires.

And it hurts,

To hear this, to see Arthur stand there and nod, resolute as only he can be.

He can feel the skin break in his palm where his own nails have pushed through. He can feel the evidence of Annabelles desires on him. He can feel Arthur’s eyes…

Asking him,

Looking to him,

For approval, confirmation.

He can’t give it.

He turns away.

Walks away,

Far away,

Down the river bend, across the bridge, all the way under the burning sun into town.

And Connor O’Driscoll is leant against the edge of a cart, smoking, red hair glinting in the sunlight.

Beckoning. 

 

***

 

They go to the saloon, dark and spacious, room at the back for two gentlemen to meet and discuss unsavoury topics. Dutch seats himself facing the door, back to the wall, while Connor sits opposite, nursing a beer.

His hands, Dutch notice, are large and callused, making the bottle look small.

He glances back up and meets Connors eyes.

“I was actually looking for you,” Connor starts, voice deep and low. “Was gonna send you a message to meet me.”

“Well, it was fortuitous that I happened upon you then.” Connor wet his lips, brings the bottle to them, drinks.

Dutch watches the movement of his throat.

Flashes, a memory forced buried, of his cock in his mouth, all the way deep, touching his throat.

His body, sick and twisted as it is, is already betraying him. A willing woman didn’t even get him half hard.

A handsome man, sweat stained and freckled from the sun, and his erection is straining his pants, threatening to undo him.

Calm, he thinks.

Stay calm.

Peace.

“Colm is planning a bank job, a town over. Says they have thousands in the safe, and only he knows the safe combination. Beat it out of some poor guard.” Dutch sips his whiskey and digests the information. 

It’s unlikely a small town bank will have thousands, but there would certainly be enough to live off for a while. And, besides, bank jobs might be less alluring than the jobs he and Hosea usually pulled, but there was something to be said for the roughness of it. It had been a long time since he’d tugged a mask on and told a clerk to ‘stick ‘em up’

“Only he knows?” He asks, not committing yet.

Until Connor smiles.

“Well, he may’ve told his idiot brother.” 

“And his idiot brother ran straight to the nearest sheriff, one would assume.” He can hear the tease in his voice. The kind of low tease that used to get him out of a lot of trouble as a young boy, and into a lot more as he grew older.

“Course he did.” Another swallow of his beer, another twitch of Dutch’s cock. “With one stop first.”

“When’s Colm planning on hitting it?” 

“Three nights from now.”

Dutch nods, he doesn’t need more than a day to draw up a quick plan.

“I’ll bring Arthur in, go in Tuesday night. Quick and easy. Colm won’t even know…” He grins to himself and leans back. Oh, to see the look on that bastards face when he sees his hard work come to nothing, an empty safe.

A note from Dutch Van Der Linde.

 

Silence now, each thinking their own thoughts, as the day darkens to night and the saloon fills. Dutch watches Connor as he relaxes, as he slowly sinks in his seat, fingers playing with the rim of his fifth beer bottle. 

Handsome boy.

Long hair falling down over soft eyes.

Four whiskeys in and Dutch is ready to forget.

“You got a room?”

Connor looks up, looks away, but not before Dutch catches the hope.

Ah, it fuels him.

“Yeah.”

“Under your own name?”

“No.” Indignant. He likes that.

“Which one?” Connor tells him, Dutch stands, checks the faces in the saloon, the exits.

“Meet me there in ten minutes.”

 

***

 

Fifteen minutes later and Connor is pushed against the wall, jeans shoved down around his ankles, legs spread, Dutch’s fingers in his ass. He opens him roughly, wanting to fuck now, to be inside now, his own cock hard and rigid against his stomach as he shoves three fingers in and hears him keen.

“Keep it down.” It’s the first thing he’s said. The first loud words in the silence of the room. Connor turns his head, looks to him.

“Fucking hurry it up then.” 

“Oh, you are a desperate one.” He pushes up close, kicks his legs further apart and reaches down. “Wanting to get debauched, degraded…”

“I ain’t…”

He guides his cock in, against that tightness, against that heat.

Grabs the nape of Connor’s neck in one hand, fingers in that long long hair.

And thrusts.

It’s quick. And it’s dirty. And it’s the most alive, most real, Dutch has felt all this goddamn long day.

“Thank you.” He mutters, looking down at himself sinking into Connor over and over. “For the kind sharing of information, Mr O’Driscoll.” Watching him take all of him, the curve of his ass, the muscles in his back. “I’ll be sure to pay you back in kind.”

Connor looks over his shoulder, wrenching from his grip just long enough to shoot him a glare, 

Oh,

Shit.

Dutch pushes then, his hand spanning the side of Connor’s face as he pushes it against the wall, holds him there as he speeds his thrusts, rams into him, violent now, so hard it hurts them both, chasing something that isn’t really there.

And Connor rocks back.

And begs for more.

And Dutch likes to think this is all altruistic. He wants to think that, has to cling to the vestiges of his original plan as his orgasm rushes headlong towards him. Information. He’s doing this for information.

But he can’t deny it any longer.

Can’t deny the sheer pleasure he feels,

As Connor comes with his name spit like a curse from slack lips.

It’s too good. 

He’s too turned on.

He wants this too much.

And he thought he’d pushed everything aside, compartmentalised, kept it all separate. That conversation with Arthur that morning, that look in his eyes, that feeling in his chest. He thought it had gone.

But no,

It’s there. At the front.

As he comes,

Inside Connor, 

Head thrown back,

Blue eyes, dark blonde hair, deep voice,

“It ain’t like that Dutch.”

Arthur.

And then Connor is turning, falling back against the wall, heaving gasps of air, flushed and sweating and almost fucking beautiful. Ruined.

“I ain’t never been had like that my whole life.” Dutch scans the room for a drink and spies the bottle by the bedside. He goes to it, trousers still unbuttoned, shirt sticking to his skin.

“You’re…” Dutch closes his eyes and takes a swig, a gulp, whiskey burning down his throat. “Shit Dutch…”

“Don’t get used to it.” He swallows the rest of the drink, and turns, gestures between them. “This is not going to be a regular thing, you can be sure of that. I don’t…” He stops, a rare time when he can’t think what to say. Connor watches him, suddenly wary, as if he’s afraid.

Good, Dutch thinks.

That’s better.

The way it should be.

Put him on the wrong foot, be unpredictable. Never let them know what you’re really thinking.

So, as he makes his way out, he stops with that thought in mind and presses a kiss, quick and gone, to Connor’s plush, open lips.

Confusion. 

And it is better.

The way it should be.

 

***

They meet again, before the end.

Before Arthur.

Before the deaths, the blood. Colm.

But Dutch didn’t know that then. 

So really, he thinks as he stands on the broken pier, looking out over the lake, waiting for Hosea to leave so he can escape the scrutiny, the looks, so he can be alone, and let his mind work, let his plan form, 

Really,

He couldn’t have changed anything.

So why take Arthur?

And bring it all crashing back.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short Vandermorgan interlude.
> 
> Present day, and Arthur is back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, I didn't expect this to be up so quickly (title of your sex tape) 
> 
> This is a short Vandermorgan interlude- one of two I have planned in this fic :) 
> 
> Alas it's not graphic, that will probably come later.
> 
> In all seriousness, it's getting to the plot now. And this chapter is pretty important for that.
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos so far. They really keep me going, and mean so much to me. I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Present day.

 

Arthur is back.

And that breathless gap in Dutch’s soul is filled.

Arthur is back.

In bad shape, beaten and shot and shocked.

But back.

With them.

With him.

He feels like he can breathe again, just enough to keep going. Not enough to quell the anger. Enough to repair that part of him fixated solely on one man. 

He used to hate it. The way he felt about him, the way his eyes drifted to him, the helplessness of desire. Fifteen years has helped manage the urges. He’s learnt to centre it. Show no-one but the one who knows. 

But still,

He felt himself begin to lose control the minute he saw Arthur enter the camp.

And he feels that control slip now, as he leans against the tent pole, and watches him in his fitful sleep. 

There is still blood on his fresh bandage.

“See,” Hosea rests a hand on Dutch’s arm as he comes to stand beside him. “I told you. Arthur here is resourceful, I told you he’d make it back without our help.”

Oh, old friend, he thinks,

I wish sometimes I could tell you everything.

“Colm wouldn’t kill him.” He says instead, rubbing at his tired eyes. He’s not slept. He rarely sleeps well, but it’s been worse.

“No.” Clever Hosea, he sees through most things.

“Not until I was there. He wants me to watch it,” He blinks away a memory, pulls himself together.

“I would say you’re right on that.” Hosea’s hand is still on his arm, an added pressure and a comfort. 

“You try to build a world, carve your place out. You fight and fight, lawmen, politicians, armies. You know you can beat them,” He turns to look at Hosea. “But Colm is like me. I can only beat him if I think...what would I do?” 

“And what would you do?” 

Dutch looks at Arthur. At the bruises on his face, the hitch in his breathing, the blood.

He knows what he wants to do. 

But it’s not what Dutch Van Der Linde would do.

“Wait until he makes a mistake.” He says eventually, turning from his lover and motioning Hosea to follow. “And then strike.” 

 

***

“Arthur’s back with us now.” Dutch strides in front of his tent, cigar in hand, eyes focussing intermittently on each member of his gang. They look back at him, dishevelled, tired, unconvinced.

He spends most of his time convincing them.

“And he is safe, with us. He needs time to heal,” Eyes go to the closed tent, where Arthur sleeps through, having been given enough laudunom to knock him out a full day at least. “Give him that time!” They nod and he looks them over. His girls, their eyes dark with concern. His boys, Javier and Charles dishevelled and tired from their hunt. John, angry and frustrated at not being here when Arthur returned. 

His family.

“And the O’Driscolls?” Bill speaks up, picking at his teeth with his knife. Uncouth. Dutch spares him a moment's glance.

“We leave them.” 

“After what they done? I say we find them now, and kill every last one of them.” Mrs Adler, hand already on her gun. Oh, but she’s an angry one. Too quick. Too hurt. Too ruled by it. If only they could all do as he does. Calm the mind, think it through, see all the pieces and how they’ll fit in the end.

If they could see that. They wouldn’t need this.

“No.” He raises his voice, comes to stand directly in front of the tent. “You happen to see them, and they shoot? You shoot back. That’s a given,” He moves a pace, raises his fist.

Direction. Years learnt.

They watch, and some part of him loves this.

“But you do not seek them out.”

He sees Sadie shake her head, bitterness wrecks her features for a moment.

“We are better than that.” He emphasises it, keeps that pause because this is something he believes. And he knows his voice is going to shake and it’s the one thing he’s never been able to control. When he believes in something, his voice betrays that. 

And he believes in this.

“We are better than them.” 

 

***

 

He comes to him. Like the first night. Like the time after Dutch was knifed in a back alley. Like the time they shared a room on an overnight train. 

He comes to him.

Thinner then he should be. Hollows in his cheeks, darkness under his eyes. Hair sticking at all angles, beard slightly unkempt.

He is still beautiful. After fifteen years.

Handsome devil.

He doesn’t even know it.

“You okay Dutch?” 

The night is cool, and calm. The camp a ways behind them, quiet sounds so far away. Dutch looks up from his seated position on the broken log.

“Moonlight is a good look on you, my boy.” 

Arthur laughs, a deep chuckle, and seats himself down next to him. 

“Anything mostly dark is a good look on me.” 

Their arms touch, through layers of fabric Dutch can tell that he’s running hot.

But then,

Arthur always runs hot.

Whilst he himself runs cool.

Lizard blood, his mother once told him.

Strange little lizard child. Not my son.

He looks ahead of him, feels Arthur settle besides him.

“You didn’t come for me.”

“No.”

A breath, hard held and filled with a hundred recriminations.

“Good.” Arthur murmurs, leaning forward with his elbows to his knees, head down. “That’s what he wanted.”

“I know.” He sees him smile.

“Of course you know. The great Dutch Van Der Linde knows everything.” Gentle sarcasm with a ring of truthful admonation. Dutch lets him have this one.

Silence, penetrated only by soft sounds of wildlife.

And Arthur’s gentle breaths.

Dutch closes his eyes and swallows hard.

“I wanted to.” 

A confession.

He feels Arthur stiffen besides him and ploughs on. Because if he doesn't, he’ll never say it. He’ll convince himself not to, the words will stick in his throat and he’ll, they’ll, be better off without them said.

But the night, a deep southern night, it lulls him.

“I wanted to. I meant to, Hosea stopped me. I was going to cut Colm’s throat for taking you. Rip his fucking heart out. I was going to…” He takes a breath, and then another. “Not you, Arthur.”

He feels fingers brush against his own tightly curled ones. Bitten down nails and calloused pads.

“Anyone on this whole goddamn twisted earth but you.”

“I figure that’s why Colm took me.” 

His heart stops.

Because he’s never told Arthur about Connor. About what Colm does or does not know.

“What did he say to you?” He risks a look and those blue eyes narrow.

“We’ll talk about it later.” 

Incredulous.

“We’ll talk about it now.” 

Arthur sighs and straightens up, hand pressing lightly to his wounded shoulder a moment as he does.

“Dutch I ain’t got the energy right now.” His defiant boy. Anyone who says Arthur is just Dutch’s enforcer is missing the point entirely.

Although, that’s a good thing.

To think what you see is all that there is.

And it’s too late before you realise.

That the killer is there,

The thinker is there,

And he’s not acting on orders.

He lets it go.

After all, he already knows. And he’s already made up his mind.

“Are you in pain?” He asks instead, and Arthur shakes his head. “You wouldn’t even admit it if you were.”

“Well I ain’t dancing on tables any time soon, but I’m going to be alright. I’m always alright.”

Yes,

Always.

But what if…

No. 

He never allows himself to think those kinds of thoughts. 

That way leads to madness.

Silence again. An owl hoots, there’s rustling in the trees behind them. He loves the sound of nature. The beauty of it. Away from commerce, away from people. 

And then

Suddenly,

Arthur turns to him,

Grabs his hand and guides it to him,

Lets Dutch spread his fingers out,

Thumb pressing against his lips,

Fingers on his cheek, his jaw.

Then he closes his eyes.

And tilts his head all the way back.

Submission in the dark.

Arthur’s favourite trick.

Dutch wets his lips, and drinks him in.

“Colm thought he had you.” As he speaks Dutch dips his thumb inside his mouth. To shut him up, or to feel him speak? He doesn’t know.

“Colm is a goddamn fool.” 

“I think he knows about us Dutch.” 

“He doesn’t.” Dutch lies, the words come easy. He watches Arthur swallow and strokes his thumb down his throat, following the movement. 

Such a goddamn beautiful man. 

He leans forwards and presses an open mouthed kiss to his throat, where the rope burns still show faint and red. Then he stands, aware that if he continues this he’ll want more. 

Desperation is never a good look on him.

“He asked me to join him. Offered me all the gold in the world.” Dutch turns and smiles. Even as he asks the question a part of him knows he won’t believe any answer given.

Trust and loyalty.

Why does he find it so hard?

“Why didn’t you take it?” Arthur stares up at him.

“You know why.”

Reaches out,

Fingers in the buckle of his gun belt,

Pulls him forward

Towards him.

A force.

Arthur is a powerful force.

Too powerful sometimes.

As he wraps his arms around Dutch’s waist, and presses his face against his stomach.

In the sanctity of the woods.

Silent.

Arthur takes a few deep breaths,

As Dutch strokes his fingers through his hair.

They have this,

He thinks,

They don’t need words.

The only time Dutch Van Der Linde lets himself be just Dutch,

And say nothing. 

 

***

 

The next day, as Arthur sleeps through the pain of a night spent on the woodland floor, Dutch holsters his guns, puts his rifle and his carved bone knife on The Count’s saddle, and rides off.

There’s a place nearby where he can stay and plan.

Only he knows where it is.

The others might have believed him when he said it was pointless to chase.

Arthur may even have believed him.

But Dutch knows how to lie, and lie well.

He knows how to hide his true feelings.

Revenge is in him, but it’s not the only thing.

And Colm O’Driscoll will listen to what he has to say.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo this is a slower burn then I anticipated. Mega soz!
> 
> Chapter 5 is a go, and we're back 15 years earlier. There is a little more internal Dutch in this one, but I'm really hoping he's still 'Dutch-like'. And I'm double hoping you guys like it! I've had so much positive feedback about this fic and every single comment (and kudos) makes my day. I can't even describe how much. 
> 
> So anyway, enough of my waffle. On with the chapter.

(15 years earlier)

 

Summer dies into autumn.

The weather is still warm, for the most part, though fraught with rainstorms that come sweeping through the land, drowning everything out.

Drowning out the sounds from that little room in the saloon. The one where you pay extra to be discreet. The one where Connor asked him to meet, saying he had something pretty big.

And it is, Dutch thinks, as he sits up against the headboard and pours over the map in front of him. Connor lays spread on the bed besides him, naked, cigarette in mouth, head hanging over the edge of the bed.

Fucked out of his mind.

Dutch rakes his eyes over him, just for a moment when he knows he’s not looking. Broad chest tapering to a slim waist, belly still a little soft, flaccid cock nestled between strong thighs.

Naked and unashamed.

Dutch doesn’t like to be naked. Not for any length of time. Even now, as he is, pants on but shirtless, even now he feels vulnerable. 

Exposed.

His armour lays neatly stacked on the chair beside the bed. Shirt, suspenders, waistcoat, chain, pocketwatch.

Armour. 

But the room is sticky. The rain brought thunder along with it. And he doesn’t mind so much when ideas float through his head, decisions decisions, a hundred a minute. 

“Colm’s always looked after me.” The rains stopped. He can hear Connor take another drag of his cigarette before he speaks again, his voice soft in the emptiness of the room. “Since we was little, he was always there to stop the others beating on me. And now I’m betraying him.”

Dutch wishes he wouldn’t speak so much. 

He needs to think.

“So what does that make me?” 

He knows what that makes him.

Reprehensible. 

But he made his choice. And Dutch suspects that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. Connor can pretend a lot of things, a born liar like his brother, but he can’t hide the way his eyes drift to the most handsome men in the room. He can’t deny the way his body sings when Dutch touches him. Connor O’Driscoll was made for men. And he’s made his choice.

Still.

Loyalty is everything.

“A little late in the day to be having these doubts, don’t you think?” He shifts a little on the bed, pulling the map onto his lap as Connor lifts his head up to look at him. Stays silent for a moment before he drops back down.

“Aye.”

He reaches down to scratch absently at his pubic hair, a darker red than the hair on his head, and Dutch allows himself a moment to watch as his fingers idly stroke his cock. 

He doesn’t like to stay after. Not usually.

This time he’d allowed himself.

They could go again.

“Do you ever have doubts Dutch?”

Of course.

“No.” He puts the map aside and reaches over, batting Connor’s hand away and replacing it with his own. “Doubts lead to mistakes. And I don’t make mistakes.”

Connor hands him the end of his cigarette and Dutch takes a drag as he curls his fist around Connor’s hardening cock.

“That’s what Colm says.”

Dutch flicks the cigarette end to the corner of the room and moves suddenly, straddling Connor, pinning him down with his own weight.

He weighs more than him. Is taller than him. Stronger than him.

If it came down to it…

“If you want anything else tonight, Connor O’Driscoll.” He says softly, moving up his body until he’s got his arms pinned. “Then I’d advise you not to talk about your brother.”

Connor’s eyes widen, such a deep dark green. The tendons in his throat strain against the pale skin as he keeps his head up. Tendons that could so easily be cut. 

Pale throat bleeding red.

Dutch places a hand around it, spanning it.

“So you’re staying the night?” Connor’s voice is just as strained. And hopeful.

Dutch knows he should leave now. 

The hint of something darker than lust is there.

But,

Oh,

To hear it.

He applies pressure. 

Doesn’t everyone want to be loved? 

Even if it’s not the right kind.

“Do I need to remind you of the arrangement, Connor?” 

Connor shakes his head as much as he can.

The rains started again.

“I’m going to fuck you again, nice and hard.” He moves back, allows Connor to shuffle down the bed beneath him and reach for the tin on the bedside table. “And then I’m going home to my woman.” 

No.

Lies.

“Where I might just fuck her the same.” 

Armour.

Connor spreads his legs. His mouth tastes of cigarettes and Dutch from their earlier encounter. His body arches under him as Dutch unbuttons his trousers and pushes them down past his hips, reaches down to open him,

All he can think about

Is the map on the bedside table,

And how to convince Hosea to take him up on the scheme.

Then,

He hears a voice.

Loud enough to be above the rain.

And for a shocked moment he thinks he really is going mad. 

It’s bad enough seeing his blue eyes when he looks into green ones, but hearing his voice loud and clear when he’s about to…

No,

He pushes Connor away and stands up, pulling his trousers back up as he goes to the little window.

And sees him.

Arthur.

Drunk and yelling at the top of his lungs,

Outside the saloon doors, directly below him.

“The hell is that racket?” Dutch barely hears Connor speak. He dresses quickly, stuffing the map into the inner pocket of his coat. 

“It’s Arthur.” 

He doesn’t spare Connor a backwards glance as he exits the room and traverses the stairs, taking his time to walk out of the back door, circling round and coming to stand behind Arthur.

“I taught you better than this.” 

The rain has soaked through Arthur’s thin shirt, meaning that it clings to the lines of his body.

Dutch was half hard from Connor.

He’s fully hard now.

Shame floods through him but he pushes it aside. 

Has to.

To function.

As Arthur laughs and throws himself at him.

“What are you doing here Dutch?” 

There’s blood on his chin. A lot of blood. Dutch pushes him back and grips him by the shoulder, cupping his face in his other hand and tilting him up to look at him.

Cut chin, split lip.

“You’ve been fighting.” 

Arthur’s wild eyed. Drunk out of his skull. 

“They started it.” He says petulantly, swaying where he’s stood until Dutch clamps his hand down harder on his shoulder. Then he stands, stock still, arms limp by his sides.

“That doesn’t mean you have to finish it.” 

“You angry at me Dutch?” 

“No.”

Yes he’s angry. 

Angry at Arthur for being here. Angry at Connor for being there. Angry at the rain, the saloon, the blood on his face now dripping onto the cuff of his coat. 

“Come on, let’s get you home to sleep it off.” He turns to go but Arthur stays.

Takes a breath.

“How come you’re never angry at me any more?” He says it softly, and in that tone of voice. The one that shows the deeper thinker. The mind behind the fists. The boy.

Dutch doesn’t move.

He’s too intuitive sometimes.

But he never in a thousand years thought he’d see this.

“Whatever I do, you don’t get angry. I ignore you, refuse to go on jobs with you, I...push...and you just…” 

Keeps his distance.

Overcompensates.

I dreamt about fucking you so hard that you cried the other night, Arthur.

I dreamt you came to me.

What would the reaction be? If he could say that.

He can’t let himself show a stronger emotion than apathy right now.

Because if he does,

It’ll come crashing down.

The rain is making it difficult to see.

“You’re bleeding like a fountain.” He says instead of everything else. 

Arthur looks surprised as he reaches up and gingerly touches to his chin, staring down at the blood staining his fingers.

He hasn’t even noticed.

Lord, but he’s drunk.

“Come home, Arthur.” 

“What are you doing here?” Arthur looks towards the saloon, and to the rooms above it. “You got a woman in there?”

“No.”

At least that’s the truth.

“I don’t think...I think it would be cruel if you did.” Dutch curls his fingers around Arthur’s upper arm and tugs him forwards.

“Cruel on who?”

But Arthur doesn’t speak, only opens his mouth as if to before clamping it back shut again, and letting himself be led.

It’s not until later, when they’re back in the house and Arthur is sleeping it off, that Dutch realises he left Connor in that room without a second thought. 

 

***

 

The job went well. Hosea was all for it in the end, although Bessie took a little more convincing. Dutch likes her well enough but sometimes he can feel the pull of her on Hosea. 

He might leave him for her.

Just like Arthur might for that Mary girl.

He’s going to have to think about it. About what might happen. He curses himself that he’s gotten too comfortable with his little gang. 

Dutch Van Der Linde was born for survival.

He needs to make a plan for when that happens. 

He can feel the despair seep into him. The blackness, the hole, that slowly starts to expand around him, pull him in even as he sits in the gardens outside the house and watches Arthur and Hosea argue over who was cheating in their card game.

It was Hosea.

It’s always Hosea.

“You’re a blackhearted man, Mr Matthews.” His voice is eerily cheerful to his own ears, but he doesn’t think they’ve noticed as Hosea looks up and grins his wide honest conmans grin.

“I’m merely teaching the boy.” He laughs, shuffling the cards again before laying three out on the table. 

“I ain’t a boy.” Arthur grumbles. The scab on his chin is healing into an impressive scar.

Dutch found the man who made it.

And left him bleeding to death in an alley.

“Ah, you’ll always be a boy to me.” 

Not to me, Dutch thinks. Not any more.

He stretches his legs out, leaning back as he is against the door and lights his cigar, watching with interest as Arthur loses twice more. 

It even took him until the second round to figure out exactly what Hosea was doing.

“Hosea Matthews,” He says softly, “Best of men.” 

And Hosea laughs,

And wins another round.

 

***

 

Another night, alone. He’s sent Annabelle away, tired of her wanting him to talk.

They always want him to talk.

Does he not talk enough?

But no, wanting him to talk about his feelings.

Towards her.

They want that word.

The word he won’t say.

Because it means nothing. 

“How does $350 sound to you right now?” He looks up from his book to see Arthur, grin on his face and cash in his hand. So pleased with himself.

“It sounds like a dream.” He laughs, holding his hand out to take it. “Where did you get this?” There’s only a little blood on the first two notes, the rest are clean. Arthur comes into his room, leaning against the armoire and crossing his arms.

“Did me a job, Dutch.” 

“Well I didn’t think it was honest earned.” 

They smile at one another.

Dutch tucks the notes into his book and sets it aside.

“A job?” Arthur nods and Dutch recognises the tension in his body. Wound up. Keyed up. From a job well done. 

His foot tapping on the hard floor.

Oh, he recognises it.

“Colm wanted me.” 

Interesting.

Dutch takes a cigar from the box on the nightstand and hands one to Arthur.

“So you’re taking orders from Colm O’Driscoll now?” He can’t hide the anger in his voice, despite his own choices. He sees Arthur bristle.

He wants his anger and he doesn’t.

“No. Actually it was Connor asked me.”

A pain in his chest, brief and gone. 

He looks down at his cigar, at the burning end.

“I wasn’t aware you was so friendly with him.” Arthur shifts, crosses one ankle over the other.

“I ain’t really. We’ve had a drink a couple of times. I like him. He’s not like Colm.” 

No. Colm’s a vulture.

Connor’s a snake.

“I’d be wary of spending too much time with him.” He says, rubbing at an imaginary stain on his pants. He hears Arthur take a puff of his cigar. 

“Connor’s alright.” 

No, he’s not.

“Just a bit…” He looks up,

And Arthur’s cheeks are flushed, just a little.

“A bit what?”

“Well, I mean,” He shifts where he stands, uncomfortable. “He just...I don’t know how to say it Dutch.”

“What?” He hears the hard bite at the end of the word and knows Arthur heard it too, because he turns to him and tries to brush it off with a smile.

“Sometimes his hand stays too long.”

He thinks he might like to shoot something.

“He’ll touch my shoulder and it’ll...stay.”

“And you don’t like that?” He says it softly, and the sudden silence in the room is deafening. 

Because he’s guilty of it too.

“I don’t like it when Connor does it.” 

Dutch sighs.

He can’t pick apart every little thing Arthur says any more. It’s too tiring, too draining. He’s allowing himself to become too focussed on what he desires, and it’s taking his mind away from better, more elevated matters.

“Next time he does it, break a finger.” Arthur snorts with laughter.

“I think that’s taking it a bit far.” 

Silence again. But not so bad this time.

“Arthur,”

“Yeah Dutch?”

“I’d rather you not see Connor without speaking to me first.”

A pause, soft and thinking.

“Sure Dutch.”

 

***

 

Connor lets out a curse as his back hits the wall, hands gripping at Dutch’s arms, fingers digging into muscle as Dutch presses a leg between his spread ones,

And a hand around his throat.

“Stay away from Arthur.” 

Connor’s eyes are wide and Dutch can feel how hard he is, the outline of his cock pressed against his thigh.

But he didn’t come here for that.

“But he’s so much fun to be around. Doesn’t say a word but gets the job done.” Connor says, rubbing up against him like a bitch in heat. 

Oh and he feels himself start to harden.

As he tightens his grip on his throat.

Harder still when Connor starts to gasp for breath.

“Arthur is off limits.” He catches his flailing arm in his free hand and slams it above his head. Connor stares him down, defiant, until the pressure becomes too much and he nods.

Dutch waits three more seconds, counts them down, before he lets go.

And turns.

“Don’t leave me like this.”

It’s not the broken plea of a woman in love.

It’s the tease of a man who knows he’s got him.

“You got anything for me?” He brushes the dirt from his lapel, ignores Connor’s groan.

“I can’t give you anything yet. Colm’s getting suspicious.”

It took him long enough.

“Then we had better cool it for a while.” He strides away, knows that Connor is watching him, knows he can’t turn.

“What’s so fucking special about Arthur anyway?”

Ignores him. Walks away.

It’s years before he realises that was the catalyst.

The mistake he made.

Not the first, not the biggest, 

But perhaps the most important.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six!! 
> 
> There's quite a bit of smut in this one. Integral plot smut.
> 
> And rejoice! For if you make it to the end of the chapter, a Vandermorgan awaits!
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and the kudos, I've received so many good things about this fic and it really helps! Comments will always, always be both appreciated and needed! Let me know what you think.
> 
> and 
> 
> Enjoy!

(15 years ago)

The days shorten and the nights seep in. Autumn deepens, even in this part of the country. Golden leaves and swift rain showers. 

Dutch loves and hates this time of year.

There are no meetings with Connor. No secret trysts, no quick fucks in back alley saloons, no release.

No release.

He sees him, of course. Impossible not to. Not when Dutch and Colm orbit the same sphere, when it seems that they can’t keep away from the other.

Oneupmanship Hosea calls it.

Not that he’s complaining, he says.

He likes the challenge.

He likes the scores.

And he’s shrewd, is his Hosea. He knows where the tips are coming from, just not the nature of the exchange. Dutch thinks that’s why he’s more inclined to join in. Ever the conman.

“I hear Colm got into a fight last night.” 

Dutch looks up from his book and raises an eyebrow at Hosea. 

“Is this hot off the press, Hosea?” He murmurs sarcastically, laughing to himself as Hosea, head in Bessies lap, rolls his eyes up at her. 

Man and woman. The way it’s supposed to be. 

Dutch looks back at his book. 

“Ain’t a news story every time Colm O’Driscoll gets too drunk and takes a swing.”

“It’s more what he was saying then what his fists were doing.” Dutch puts his book down with an exaggerated sigh and looks to him.

“I’m all ears brother.” 

“Well I don’t think I feel like telling you now.” Hosea should have been on the stage. His over exaggerated mueu of a pouted lip, his widened eyes. “All I am is a humble man, trying to offer some snippet, some tiny morsel, some insignificant…”

“Just tell us!” Arthur growls from the corner of the room, wrapped up in a blanket and suffering from a head cold  


Dutch briefly glances at him but again, 

Again,

Arthur looks away.

And doesn’t engage.

It’s been like this nearly two weeks. 

And Dutch doesn’t know why,

But is afraid to ask.

Coward.

Fucking coward.

“Come on, love.” Bessie laughs, tilting Hosea’s chin up and tapping him on the nose. “What did Colm say, we’re all dying to hear.”

“For you my love, I will speak!” Hosea moves, sitting up and forwards on the small couch. Dutch leans forward to mirror his pose, laughing as he does. 

“Speak man.” 

Annabelle comes to him as Hosea speaks, wraps her arm around Dutch’s shoulder and settles herself on his lap. He doesn’t mind so much today. Today his mood is fine. Today she can.

He looks to Arthur again.

Who’s looking at Annabelle with an expression that Dutch, who prides himself on reading a man, can not work out. 

And a thought comes through, a sickening, awful thought.

That Arthur is jealous.

Annabelle is beautiful, and she’s not much older than Arthur. They get along well, always have.

Does he want more? 

“Dutch are you even listening?” 

He blinks. Pulls himself back into the moment.

“Always, my oldest friend. To you, I am always listening.”

“I was saying that Colm is going around accusing men of...what was it? Oh, yes. Stealing his thoughts.” Dutch waits a moment for the punchline but nothing comes. He leans back in his chair.

“Has the fool finally gone mad?” He muses, drumming his fingers on Annabelles waist. 

“If so it’s been a long time coming.”

“Stealing his thoughts?” Clarify.

“Stealing his thoughts. Seems like a few jobs he’s had lined up, no-one else knew about. And yet...someone,” A pointed look at Dutch, “seemed to get there first.”

Connor.

A laugh that comes from nowhere makes him throw his head back. Deep throated and amused. He laughs, and hears Hosea join in.

“You’re driving him crazy Dutch! A few months and he won’t be able to tell friend from foe.” 

“Paranoia.” Dutch wraps both arms around Annabelle and kisses her bare shoulder. He feels happy, for the first time in a while. Happy because an idea, a good idea, has presented itself. “It’s a killer.”

It’s been a while, the dust has settled, the hunger is back,

He refuses to look at Arthur as he shares a toast with Hosea,

It’s time to pay Connor O’Driscoll a visit. 

 

***

 

It’s secluded, the place Connor picked. A copse of trees surrounding a small pond. Dutch can hear foxes bark, birds call, as he picks his way through to the figure leaning against the tree.

In the dusk light he can see him smoking, a small pile of cigarette butts by his feet.

Nerves?

How long has he been here.

He looks up when Dutch approaches, looks up from under his cap and nods, taking the last drag of his cigarette before crushing that one too, discarded with the others.

He will taste of smoke, Dutch thinks.

Smoke and lust.

He pushes that away.

Walks to him.

He was going to speak. He had it all planned. The words he was going to say, to test to cajole, to tease out of him what he wanted. He was going to speak.

Dutch Van Der Linde is good with words.

But instead,

His traitorous body.

He steps up, closer and closer, until without knowing it one hand is around Connor’s throat, the other unbuckling his belt.

“Straight to the point.” Connor laughs. “I always liked that about you, Dutch.”

“Be quiet.” He hisses, shoving Connor’s jeans down around his hips so that his cock is on display, hard and leaking and wanting. 

No release.

All he wants is fucking blessed release.

He turns Connor, pushes him up against the tree and wraps one hand around his cock, jerking him fast and rough. 

“Spread your legs.” He growls it, can hear his own voice deepening with the ache of lust. 

Spits on his hand.

Wets his fingers.

“You can’t fuck me here.” Connor mutters, rubbing back against him as if to call lies to his words.

“No? Why?” 

“I ain’t prepared and you ain’t going to fucking hurt me.” Dutch closes his eyes and squeezes his hand around the base of Connor’s cock.

“I can bleed you dry if I want to, boy.”

He doesn’t even know if he actually means it.

So desperate.

He waits a long moment then lets go.

Lets Connor turn, drop back against the tree.

“Fuck me.” He’s breathing fast and hard.

“I was trying to.” Dutch hears himself laugh and hates the sound.

“The things you do to me.” Connor speaks as if to himself, as he kicks off his boots and pulls his jeans off fully. Presses up against Dutch, naked from the waist down, cock leaking onto the his pristine clean pants. “The things you make me want to do.” 

Dutch pushes his fingers into his mouth.

To shut him up.

Reaches down and strokes one finger inside.

“You fucking liar.” 

Open and ready for him.

Connor smirks, 

And for an instant looks like Colm.

And reminds him.

Why he’s here.

“Wanted to see if you’d stop.” He says and it’s almost soft, a confession. And Dutch has to force himself not to shout, to show how angry that makes him.

“I don’t take what isn’t given free.” 

“That’s all you do.” Oh, ho. Sharp words.

“Not when it comes to this.”

Connor drops to his knees, boneless and waiting.

“I just wanted to make sure.” 

The anger mixes in with the lust and Dutch grips Connor by the back of the head, pulling him forward sharply.

Wet, hot, heat.

Don’t think you can trick me again.

He fucks his mouth, debates coming so that Connor won’t get what he wants. Debates coming just from spite. 

But he holds back.

He needs something, and that something is worth more than petty revenge. 

Inside now.

On his knees in the muck of the forest floor. 

Foxes barking.

“Tell me about Colm’s next job.” 

Connor’s fingers grip into the dirt, his moans are loud enough to drown the night.

And he tells him,

Between gasps

Between thrusts

Between the pleasure and the ultimate end.

And when the end comes, 

It doesn’t shake the earth.

It leaves him cold.

 

***

 

It was a pretty big score. A few hundred and the knowledge that the knife is twisting just that little bit more in Colm’s back. 

A game.

And so. A night out. That’s what he gives them. A night out at the new show in town. A night out, Hosea and Arthur and Annabelle and Bessie.

A night out for the four of them.

And peace for Dutch.

Who lays back in his bed, closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

It eludes him.

It often does.

When he’s thinking too hard. Planning too hard. When he wonders if playing this game with Colm will end well.

Or if it will ever end.

And Connor?

He refused to see Connor.

It’s getting too close.

He’s starting to need….

A sound shocks him from his reverie. A door closing quietly downstairs. Dutch looks to his pocket watch on the bedside table.

Midnight.

Too early for them to return.

Silently he reaches for his gun, curls his finger around the trigger when he hears footsteps on the stairs.

He knows them.

Releases.

Waits.

He’s still holding the gun when the door opens and Arthur stands there.

Bathed in lamp light.

They haven’t spoken more than two words to each other in weeks, despite Dutch trying.

And he’s here.

When he should be out.

“I have something to say.” 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t come into the room. Just stands there in the doorway looking more confused than Arthur ever has.

His confidence, his cocksure arrogance.

It’s gone.

Dutch wets his lips,

Nods.

“I know about you and Connor. And I don’t like it.” 

His heart stops.

He feels it drop, thud, return.

“What do you know about me and Connor?” He’s not surprised at how calm his voice is. Years he’s honed himself, taught himself, to sound like this in the face of shock.

“That you been spending a lot of time with him. Secret meetings. I know he’s feeding you information, I just don’t know why.” Arthur’s voice is full of barely contained emotion. But Dutch can’t work out what emotion it is.

Why can’t he read Arthur any more?

He puts his gun down, for want of something to do, and leans forward.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Dutch.” He doesn’t know the half of it.

But, oh.

Fuck.

Concern.

It’s concern.

“Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

“It won’t be you. I promise.” The words come out before he’s thought them. A problem he has with Arthur. Something he can’t fight. 

“No.” Arthur moves then. 

Comes into the room and closes the door behind him.

A soft click.

Keeping the world out.

“It’ll be you.” He moves closer, until he’s stood in front of him, until Dutch has to look up at him and see the softness, the boy he was, the man he is.

“Dutch.” 

And Arthur reaches out.

Because Dutch was too much of a coward to.

So Arthur reaches out

Almost naive

Puts two fingers very gently to Dutch’s open mouth.

“I don’t think I could stand that.”

His heart is beating again.

Too fast.

Like it’s woken up.

Like he’s woken up.

As he takes Arthur’s hand in his and tilts it palm up, 

Presses a kiss to it.

Horse and lead and guns and Arthur.

Closes his eyes.

“What are you asking me?”

He looks up and sees that Arthur is shaking.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

He has to.

He has to know.

“I don’t want Mary.” As he speaks, his fingers curl in Dutch’s hand. “I don’t want a whore. I don’t want a...I don’t…” 

“A woman?”

Arthur swallows, hard. Nods, silent.

“And so?”

“I think you’re going to kill me Dutch.” He whispers it, pulls away completely. Goes to stand as far away as the room will allow.

Dutch feels cold.

He feels 

Heartbeat.

He looks at Arthur, broken and confused.

“You have to tell me what you want.” He says, very softly but with absolute conviction. “You have to tell me so I don’t get it wrong. Clarify. What do you want?”

Arthur shakes his head and lets out a small cough of a laugh.

“Well I don’t know.”

“Arthur!” Sharp, maybe too sharp because Arthur startles, lips a thin line.

“I don’t know! I don’t know how it works with…” He gestures between them in such a comical way that the air floods back into the room and Dutch laughs.

Joy,

Absolute joy.

“What do you want?” He asks it again.

“I want what you want.”

Oh blessed answer. Brilliant answer. Beautiful, glorious, terrifying answer.

“Come here.”

He whispers. His first command.

And Arthur obeys.

 

***

 

He’s new to sex. That much is obvious. Not a virgin, most certainly, but new to some things.

Especially this.

Dutch on his knees by the bed,

Arthur naked,

Leaning back,

Eyes wide

Watching with amazement 

As Dutch takes him in his mouth.

His own cock lays untouched between his legs

Because it’s not about him,

Or release.

The release came when Arthur broke down

And asked him to teach him.

And here he is, fingers clenched in the bed covers, thighs trembling beneath Dutch’s hands, soft gasps 

And

A sound he’s never heard from Arthur,

A sound he’ll make again.

Shocked and deep and growled,

As he comes,

Quick,

A little too quick.

Over Dutch’s throat, down his chest, matted into his chest hair, 

Covered.

And Arthur is red faced, mortified, looking anywhere but at him as Dutch dips his fingers in, and licks them clean.

“I’m sorry...I’ve just never…”

Embarrassment in pleasure.

It’s a good look on him.

“Sorry Dutch, shit…”

“Don’t be. I’m curiously flattered, my boy.” He means it too. Sitting there on the floor, in a position he rarely lets himself be in, covered in come, sticky and hot and hard.

Silence,

For a moment, 

As Dutch reaches across for a cloth and wipes at his face

And then

Very softly,

“I am.” 

Dutch pauses, 

Heart beats

“What?”

“Yours...your boy.”

Beats.

“My boy.” He doesn’t recognise his own voice. “Lay down.”

 

***

 

The next day. After Arthur leaves his room silently, with a wide smile and a few more kisses, after Arthur shows him that he’s a fast learner, has a wicked mouth, is more receptive to him then anyone ever has been...

The next day

Connor turns up in camp and begs Dutch to take him in. 

And Dutch tells him no. 

And walks away.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Dutch have a lot to talk about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven! 
> 
> This chapter- that I tentatively entitled 'The Vandermorgan Interlude' back when I was plotting out this fic- was originally going to be Chapter Three. We're up to Seven...
> 
> To all of you who comment, who ask me things, who genuinely seem interested in the characters and ideas, I'm both amazed and humbled. I thought this little fic wouldn't do well, that I'd maybe give up after a couple of chapters, but the comments and kudos really make me want to keep going with it! So thank you! and feel free to find me on tumblr (weneedaruse) 
> 
> Anyhoo, this is a dialogue heavy chapter (for me) with some...Vandermoganess at the end...please enjoy, and please please let me know what you think :) 
> 
> (mistakes etc are all mine, that goes for the whooooooole fic)
> 
> EDIT: I done a mistake! It’s winter 15 years ago but not now. Gah. It is fixed. Sorry! I’m confusing myself now...

Present day

 

There’s a reason to cultivate things.

To preserve a facade for the outside world. Little things that people notice. And take away. So that they never know the real you.

A woman on your arm. A boy you call son. A waistcoat and shirt always, even in the warmest weather.

Facade.

Colm wanted to break it down but he couldn’t.

Connor wanted to rip him apart and he died for it.

There are no end to the lengths Dutch will go.

To preserve.

To protect.

Them.

Him.

He’s thinking this, as he stands, smoking, in the doorway of the cabin that Josiah Trelawny swore that no-one else knew about. Thinking this as he watches Arthur make his way towards him.

The sun is setting.

Golden hour.

It picks it all out.

The gold in his hair, in his beard, even his eyelashes.

Golden boy.

“Go home Arthur.” He stubs out his cigar as Arthur comes to stand in front of him. And smiles.

“But home is wherever you are. And seeing as you’re here…” 

“Don’t be facetious.” 

“I’m sorry, I ain’t never learned them big words mister.” With exaggerated confusion, Arthur comes closer. Close enough that he can smell the scent of him, and it drives him wild. “No-one never teached me.” 

He has to step back.

Because if he doesn’t...

“What are you doing here?” He asks,

“What are you doing here?” He counters.

And they stand,

And wait,

And the air is thick,

And Dutch knows he has to speak.

But he doesn’t want to.

Instead he turns and enters the cabin, gesturing for Arthur to follow.

“Sit down.” He commands as Arthur comes up behind him. 

The only man he can turn his back on.

“You look like you’re going to keel over any second. Sit down, you fool.” 

Arthur does, perches himself on the edge of the bed, leans forwards with his elbows to his knees, and looks up at him.

“How did you find me?” He seats himself on the rickety wooden stool, as far away from Arthur in this little cabin as he can get. 

He can’t be tempted.

He won’t be tempted.

There is something he has to do. Something that even Arthur can’t deviate him from. 

“Trelawny told me about this place a couple of months ago.” Dutch sighs. Of course he did. And neglected to mention that to him.

Silence again.

There’s so much to say and no way to start. 

Arthur shifts, stretches out his long legs, crossing one ankle over the other.

Over the last fifteen years he’s learnt to dull it. The ache. He’s learnt to push aside certain things, allow other things, to keep the both of them sane. To keep the both of them alive in this world. 

But sometimes,

Just sometimes,

Like now,

Arthur will do something so unconsciously sensual, something so unbelievably banal as crossing his legs, and Dutch will lose himself all over again.

He closes his eyes.

“You can’t kill Colm.”

He opens them again.

“Can’t I?” A challenge. 

“He’s too protected Dutch, you know that. And you don’t need me to tell you that. So what I’m wondering is, why now?” Oh his clever boy.

“He kidnapped you, tortured you, tried to kill you. It should have been done fifteen years ago! It should have been done a month ago! Why not now?” He stands, he gestures, but he knows the performance is worthless on Arthur, who shakes his head.

“That’s not it. Don’t lie to me Dutch.” 

Oh, there’s steel in his voice.

He’s angry.

God, the things they used to do when Arthur was angry.

He almost smiles.

“I never lie to you unless I absolutely have to. To protect you.” 

Arthur laughs, a short sharp huff of a laugh. 

“To protect me.” He looks up then, and the blow is direct. A perfect shot. “Like Connor?”

Knowing. 

He knows.

A gut punch.

Dutch sits back down, rubs at his face.

In fifteen years they never talked about Connor. 

“How long have you known?” He wants to know and he doesn’t. He wants to tell him and he doesn’t. To open up about it, to speak about the mistakes and the lies and the deaths. They stick in his throat, the words. They always have.

But Arthur,

Arthur is looking at him with those eyes, knowing and untrusting.

And he has to look away, hang his head.

“Colm told me.” He doesn’t look up and so only hears the sound of him shifting on the bed, the catch of a match, the scent of cigarette smoke. “Told me how you fucked his brother. Told me Connor would never want that but you did it anyway. Told me that you wrung information out of him when he was on his knees, begging you to stop.”

The anger is sharp and hot.

“That’s a goddamn lie.” 

Arthur laughs, different this time.

“I know that Dutch.” 

A breath, inhale and exhale of smoke.

“But some of it was true, wasn’t it? You fucked Connor.”

Dutch debates lying. He hates himself for it but he debates it. He knows how to lie and lie well. 

“We had a...relationship, that was beneficial to both parties.”

“Before me?” Hope, a question he doesn’t want to ask. He can see that. This, at least, he doesn’t have to lie.

“Yes. Never after.” They’ve never been burdened by jealousy. But that doesn’t mean it’s not sometimes there.

Arthur turns the cigarette over in his fingers, rolls it, looks only to it as he says,

“Connor told me.”

Well. That shocks him.

“What?” 

“I didn’t believe him. He’d...he’d say things and I thought he was just,” Arthur sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I thought he was just being disgusting. Thought he was, you know, trying to spread rumours about you. And...and because of how I felt, how I was…” 

He stops, stubs his cigarette out under the heel of his boot.

And looks to him.

“He’d say awful things.” 

“Like what?”

“Just…” He blushes,

Oh, when he blushes.

“He’d say things like...like what you taste like…”

Dutch swallows.

“What I taste like?”

Anger and pride and smoke probably.

Arthur nods.

“What you look like when you…” Gestures then, embarrassed by the mention of something he’s seen him do countless times. “I thought he was trying to get a rise out of me.”

“Did it work?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Of course it did. I beat him ‘til he couldn’t see.” 

Shit.

He’d thought that was Colm. Connor had said that was Colm. 

Lies on lies.

Another long silence. One that Dutch wants to fill but he doesn’t know what to say. He could, he could fill it with false words, he could say how it never happened the way he’s thinking. He could send him away, fully this time, and Arthur would go.

But,

He doesn’t want to lie.

He’s gotten so good at lying over the years that it’s harder to tell the truth.

But he tries.

“You sent him away.” Arthur says it very quietly, almost like his own trick where you have to lean close to hear. “The morning after, I saw it. You sent him away. Was it because of me?”

“No.” 

Silence then, and an expression he can’t figure out.

“Did you want it to be?”

Arthur smiles, that half smile, the one that brings comfort, lust, home.

“No. I’m glad it wasn’t. I’m relieved it wasn’t.”

“Even if you hadn’t been there. Even if we hadn’t...I would have still said no.” Dutch reaches out then. Because he has to. Because he can’t stop himself. Because Arthur is so close and so far away. He stands, cups his face in one hand, tilts him up so he’s looking at him.

“Sure.”

“He betrayed his brother for a couple of rushed fucks.” He strokes his fingers through his hair. “Sold his brother out for a cock in his ass. Do you think I would let anyone like that near my family? He would have betrayed us the first time a pretty boy winked at him.”

Arthur wets his lips and looks him dead in the eyes.

“You ain’t innocent in this.”

“I never sold you out. Or Hosea.” 

Arthur closes his eyes, reaches up and curls his fingers around Dutch’s wrist. 

“Do you think Colm knew he came to you like he did?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why he’s asked me over the years to come to him?”

“Yes.”

Arthur presses a kiss to Dutch’s wrist, speaks against his skin.

“It’ll never end. Connor, Annabelle, who next. Molly?” Dutch shakes his head,

“Molly’s safe.” There’s things in place.

“I don’t like this Dutch.” Arthur presses his cheek against his palm now, tilts his head back further when Dutch strokes a thumb over his lips.

“Don’t like this?” Traces his fingers over his beard now, down his jaw, down his throat.

“Don’t like you hiding up in here, readying yourself to fight.”

Hollow of his throat, past that, across,

Bullet wound.

“Without me.” 

Dutch curls two fingers under the bandage and applies pressure.

Arthur flinches back, pushes him away.

“What the hell Dutch!”

Dutch steps back.

Sits down.

“It’s late. You’re injured. You need to sleep.” 

 

***

It’s late, just after midnight by his watch, and as Arthur sleeps, Dutch watches. 

He hates how their conversation went. 

He hates how he is.

How he can’t…

He shakes his head

And Arthur sleeps on.

He could get in there beside him, curl against his back, wrap his arms around him as he so desperately needs. As they both need.

But Dutch has never been tender. It’s not in him to be. And over the years there’s been less chance to even try.

But when Arthur is like this,

Oh,

But he wants to be,

For him. 

Yet he doesn’t know how to be.

Fifteen goddamn years and he still doesn’t know. 

He can fake it. He knows how to do that.

He could pretend and he could lie.

But he doesn’t want to.

Not with Arthur.

Especially not with Arthur like this.

Hurt. Lost. Broken. Confused.

Needy.

A moment, a decision,

Then Dutch stands, undresses, removes all traces of his armour,

And gets into bed beside Arthur, who turns his head to look back at him. The bandage on his naked shoulder is a blinding light in the darkness of the room. 

He touches his lips to it, moves up to press behind him.

Fully.

Completely.

Naked skin to naked skin.

Feet, thighs, cock, stomach, chest.

All.

He curls an arm under Arthurs chest and pulls him back against him.

Kisses the nape of his neck.

“I’ll never let anything happen to you.” 

There is his truth. His absolute truth.

Arthur bows his head, voice muffled.

“It’s not me I’m worried about Dutch.” 

And there’s Arthurs.

 

***

 

It’s slow.

The progression from comfort to sex.

An unusual occurrence for Dutch.

And not one he’s prepared for.

But when Arthur rocks back, just a little, into the embrace,

Sighs, just a little more, at the absent, accidental stroke of a finger over his nipple, 

Then it moves.

Because something so much more.

Becomes this,

The two of them,

No other soul in the world around them.

And now Dutch is over him, completely.

Arthur on his front, face flushed and hair curled with sweat against the pillow,

Dutch moves only his hips,

Slow, deep, intense.

It’s like the first time.

He’s going to lose control again.

Control he’s spent his life trying to gain.

He rests his forehead against Arthurs temple, curls his arms around his head,

Shields him.

“Close your eyes.” He hears himself speak but he doesn’t recognise his voice. Too deep, too ruined, too broken.

He hears Arthur gasp, fingers digging into his as he moves,

A slow press and release.

Stay inside

“You’re my ruin.” He whispers it, his truth.

“Dutch!” Arthur’s losing control too. He can feel it. In the tremble of his arms, in the desperate attempt to push back, in the hitch in his cries. 

But Dutch keeps his pace.

Forces himself to.

Against the screaming in his head to take, go faster,

To come.

He stays slow,

Stays deep,

“I will never love anything,” 

He can’t control his words,

As the edge nears,

As Arthur’s sounds grow louder, 

And louder,

In the fastness of the bed,

He can’t stop the words,

“The way I do you, Arthur.” 

He feels him fall apart.

Clench around him,

Come without a hand.

Come from his touch, his voice.

Come with a choked back sob, fingers gripped in the bed sheets, face hidden.

He stays inside him as he rides it out, 

Holds him tight against him,

Teeth grazing the nape of his neck.

They stay like that a long moment.

Dutch still hard, and desperate, and aching inside him.

Arthur catching his breath beneath him.

And then,

When his breathing slows,

Dutch starts all over again.

 

***

 

Morning dawns bright and clear and warm.

Arthur lays on his back, the sheets kicked off sometime after the second time.

Naked body bathed in morning sun.

More scars than fifteen years ago. More hair, more muscle, more…

Dutch catches himself staring and looks away, buttons up the last one of his waistcoat and smooths down the front. 

“You’re still going.” It’s not a question and so Dutch doesn’t answer.

Arthur heaves a sigh, pushing himself up to sitting.

Dutch takes a quick glance.

Gorgeous boy.

A night of love hasn’t dampened that.

He rests his hand lightly on the handle of his gun.

“Last night,” Arthur says quietly, eyeing him. “You said you love me.” 

Dutch looks down, away, anywhere but him.

He can do things, he can say all manner of things, he can fuck him until he cries and he can tell him out loud how proud he is of him, 

But this,

This.

“You know that.” 

Arthur furrows his brow, 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

Dutch shifts uncomfortably. Blinks. Forces himself to stop and look at him.

“You want me to say it more often? Is that it?” Defensive now. He hears it but can’t stop. “So that will make it mean more?”

“No.” Still that look, that unfathomable look. How is it, Dutch thinks, that he can be more intimate with this man than with any other, and can read him less.

“Then what?” His words come out short and clipped.

“Just that,” Arthur stands, pushes himself from the bed to come to him, naked and lithe and beautiful. “You’ve never felt the need to speak it out loud before. I’m wondering why now.”

I’m wondering it too, he thinks.

But he doesn’t say it.

Only leans forward and touches his lips to Arthurs.

“I want you to stay here.”

Arthur pulls back and looks him in the eyes, holds his gaze for longer than either of them are comfortable with.

“Are you telling me or asking me?”

Both.

“Asking.” 

Arthur breaks the gaze, and goes back to the bed.

And Dutch opens the door to the morning.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor confronts Dutch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hokay.
> 
> It's all coming to the end now, things are moving. I don't want to give any spoilers for the chapter, except to say that if you wade through it til the end you'll get Vandermorgan :)
> 
> And once again, thank you to every one of you who comments (and give Kudos). I've felt a lot of love from you guys for this little fic and...well...words can't describe it. So, just, sincerely. Thank you.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for this chapter.

(15 years ago)

 

The need to be discreet wars with desire. 

A week passes, then two, and Dutch feels like he’s fighting almost. Fighting to remain still and standing in the face of the hurricane that is Arthur Morgan.

Little touches, he allows himself that. A pat on the back, a press of the shoulder, a gentle squeeze of the wrist when no-one’s paying attention. This is all he can allow himself. 

No-one is to know.

Arthur accepts that as he accepts everything, with a nod and a smile. 

No-one is to know.

He pushes at Annabelle when she comes to him. Rejects advances. He’s tired, he has too much on his mind, he’s drunk, he doesn’t have the time right now.

It’s cruel to her. He knows this.

And yet,

Yet,

He doesn’t stop himself.

Cruelty is a part of his world. Their world.

And Annabelle is not what he wants. But she has what he needs.

He knows that. 

“Arthur seems brighter.” Dutch looks up from his book, wrongly thinking he was secluded and alone in this little nook in the trees. But Hosea has always been able to find him.

“Brighter?” He asks, putting his book aside and tugging his coat around him. Winter is here again, and it’s a cool one.

“Happier, not moping around with that scowl on his face,” Hosea sits down beside him on the fallen tree trunk, pats his knee and offers him a smoke. “Must be that Mary girl.” 

Dutch lights his cigarette, it gives him time to formulate his words. 

Has to think.

“He’s been seeing her again?” 

Hosea shrugs,

“I don’t know. I can only assume he has, what with that big dumb grin he’s now sporting..” 

That morning Dutch had held Arthur’s face in one hand, his cock in the other as he stroked him roughly to orgasm in the beaten up kitchen of their little house, watching him come with an amazement he’d never felt before. 

“Probably in love.” He says, taking another drag. “People in love often walk around with big dumb grins Hosea.” A small dig, one that his friend takes in good humour.

“It’s good to see him happy.”

“It surely is.” They sit in silence a long moment, each with their own thoughts. 

“This came for you.” Dutch notices then that Hosea is holding an envelope, produced from seemingly nowhere. He holds his hand out but Hosea holds back.

“Are you planning on reading it to me, Hosea?” 

“I didn’t think anyone knew we were here.” 

Hosea’s the careful one. 

Sometimes too careful.

“Only the ones who needs knowing.” He snatches the envelope from him and tucks it into his coat pocket. He recognises the writing and there’s no way he’s opening it with Hosea there.

Another silence, another cigarette and then Hosea stands, 

“I don’t know what’s been going on Dutch, and I don’t want to know.” He says suddenly, not looking to him but to the sky, far away. “But be careful, please.”

Before Dutch can think on an answer Hosea is gone,

And Dutch opens the letter.

 

***

 

Headlong rushing into a bad decision. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.

“I have information. I need to see you.”

A time. A place.

Dutch sends Arthur away, tells Hosea to take him out hunting, fishing, to the saloon, anywhere but where he can follow him. Sends them away and sets off.

An open plain, too open perhaps. 

And a man, stood in the centre of it all, wind whipping at his clothes, his fire-hair bright in the afternoon sun.

“You came.” Dutch dismounts and heads towards him, stopping a few feet short.

He won’t get any closer.

“What do you want?” Connor’s head is down, so that he can’t see him properly. Dutch takes the chance here to look around. He can see no-one, no sign of an ambush. No sign of another soul. 

“This ain’t your usual welcome, Dutch.” Connor’s voice brings him back, and as he looks up Dutch notices the bruises.

“You run into a bad situation?” Connor’s nose has been broken and reset badly, ruining the symmetry of his face. The blue/black bruises around his eyes tell Dutch that this happened not long ago, a day or two at most.

“He tried to kill me.” 

“Who?”

“Colm.” Connor begins to pace, restless, like he can’t stand still. His hands ball up into fists and then uncurl, back again and again. Dutch watches each movement, “He tried to kill me.”

“By punching you in the face? I always bagged him as a shoot now, ask questions later kind of monster.”

“Yeah, well you ain’t his brother.” 

“No.” Connor stops, turns suddenly so that he’s fully facing him, hands held loosely at his side.

Silence. The two of them waiting.

“I need you Dutch.” Connor says suddenly, and in a voice that neither desperate nor needy. Dutch shakes his head.

“You sent me a letter, brought me out here so I can fuck you?” 

“Not like that.” Connor reaches out and it takes everything Dutch has in him to not step back. 

He’s still handsome.

He’s still enough for the blood to flow.

But not enough for the ache.

He’s not Arthur.

“I need your help.” His voice is strained, different. Odd.

Dutch can feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. A warning.

“Help with what?”

“He’s going to kill me. It ain’t no lie. He found out about us and he wants me dead.” Dutch holds his hands out, and shrugs.

“That’s not really my problem now, is it?” A flash of rage in Connor’s eyes, quickly banked and put away.

“What do you think he’s going to do to you?” He hisses it, and Dutch is finding it hard to keep up with the changes, sudden and confusing. Connor is pacing again now, chewing roughly on his thumb nail. “When he catches up to you. Colm don’t let nothing get by him.”

“Well he hasn’t come to me yet.” It’s true. He’s had no word from Colm O’Driscoll in months. No offers of jobs, nothing. They no longer orbit the same sphere. 

“He will.”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

Another change then, as sudden as the ones before.

“Yes!” Connor leaps forwards, grips tightly to the collar of Dutch’s coat. “Yes, exactly.”

Dutch pushes him away.

“You want him dead, you do it yourself. Is this what you dragged me out here for?” He turns to walk away, back to his horse, back to the house, back to Arthur.

“Why won’t you help me?” Dutch drops his head back and sighs, before looking back to him.

“Why should I help you?” He strides forward, pissed now, angry now. He crowds Connor, tall and broad as he his, crowds him and uses his own height against him. “What could I possibly do? You sold your own brother out for a quick fuck and now you’re here expecting handouts? Kill him your goddamn self, or run away.”

“No-one runs away from Colm. He finds you, he’ll always find you.” 

“He’s not omnipotent! He’s not a devil to be afraid of. He’s a small time crook in a world of small time crooks.”

“Like you?” 

No, he thinks.

Not like me.

I’m so much more.

But he says nothing, only pushes Connor away.

“Don’t contact me again.” He goes to his horse, tugs on her reins. “Don’t come to the house. Run away, Connor O’Driscoll. Run far away because so help me God, if I find you’ve been talking to Arthur again, I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

He chides himself for the raised voice, for the anger in the face of it. 

He’s about to mount when Connor speaks,

Soft and vile and full of venom.

“I hate you.” Dutch smiles. He knows it’s not a good smile.

“Join the club.”

But Connor isn’t finished.

And Dutch should have gone then but doesn’t, he stays, one hand on his horses mane as Connor’s voice picks up volume, words tripping over themselves,

“I fucking hate you. I hated you before and I hate you more now. You stupid smug selfish son of a goddamn bitch. Silver tongue Dutch Van Der Linde! So silver that you couldn’t use that instead of your cock? Fucked me to get information, put me down on the floor and treated me like a goddamn dog. You piece of shit! You used me! You’re like Colm! You used me, like he does...and move on to the next one.” 

Dutch moves without thought, something he has never been able to stop himself doing in anger. He moves and closes in on Connor again. 

“Watch your mouth, boy.” He slams a hand out and catches Connor on the side of his head, more to stop the torrent of words then to actually hurt him. 

But Connor doesn’t still.

Connor pushes back.

“I’ll fucking find him.” He hisses, pushing at Dutch when he takes another swing. “I’ll find him and I’ll use him like you used me.”

“I’m warning you.”

“I’ll use him, fuck him til he bleeds for me and then I’ll put him down.” 

It’s not an idle threat. Not to Dutch.

He doesn’t even say his name but it’s as if all the breath is taken from him.

His hand is on his gun before he even realises it.

But Connor sees it.

Eyes wide.

“You gonna kill me now, Dutch?” 

And he smiles as he says it,

Opens his arms wide and tilts his head back.

“Take your shot. Dying is better than living.”

Dutch can argue that.

He doesn’t though.

Only releases his grip from his gun and holds both hands up.

“I ain’t going to kill you.” He says it softly, lowers his voice. 

Takes a step back.

“I got money.” He hears himself say, “Take it and run.”

Connor tilts his head down and his expression is close and guarded.

“You trying to buy me off like a whore?”

“No. I’m trying to settle this man to man.”

“I ain’t your whore Dutch Van Der Linde.” 

“I know that.”

Connor’s riled and broken and lost. 

But that’s not his fault.

He can’t be blamed for an unhinged O’Driscoll.

They were born that way.

He takes another step back, slow small step.

And Connor smiles again.

“I told him.” He says softly, almost singsong. And Dutch wonders if he’s actually drunk. “Told Colm all about it. Gave me two black eyes and a cracked rib but I didn’t stop. Told him about the bank job, about the sheriff, about the sweet little old lady in the empty house.”

His eyes are too bright,

A sure sign.

“Told him about Hosea and his wife. About that bitch you sleep with. Told him about Arthur, oh, Colm’s very interested in Arthur right now.”

It’s a cold rage,

The one he feels.

A chill in his whole body,

Settling,

Steel.

His hand is around Connor’s throat, finger and thumb squeezing into the soft flesh at the underside of his jaw. Connor makes a sound like a wounded animal. He’s ready to kill now, if he has to. It’s never something he takes lightly.

But he’s ready.

“Mention him one more time and you and me are going to have a problem.” 

And then

The fight goes from Connor’s eyes,

Like he’s been given an answer,

And he doesn’t like it.

And Dutch can’t quite believe that this could all be over something so base as jealousy.

But,

Jealousy, like cowardice, like lust, like greed, always finds the lowest level,

And works its way around.

He releases him.

It happens fast and it happens slow.

A contradiction.

Connor pushes back and pulls his gun out.

Enough time for Dutch to get to his.

Aim.

A quick glance to the left.

Gun under his chin.

A smile.

A whisper.

“He’ll never forgive you.”

It happens fast,

And it happens slow.

As Connor’s head snaps back, blood arching in the cold air, a spray, a foam.

And then he falls,

Crumples,

Fast, 

And slow.

Dutch hears a broken howl and thinks it’s himself, for a split second he thinks he cried out but no,

No,

He sees him.

A figure in the distance.

Running.

And Dutch runs too.

Away from the ruin, the body, the blood, the brother.

Runs as fast as he can.

 

***

 

He should have gone then. He should have packed them up and taken them. But instead, instead as he entered the house, he sees Arthur.

And Arthur wraps himself around him.

And Arthur whispers in his ear.

“Dutch. I want you.”

He should have taken them then.

But he’s selfish.

And he wants what’s offered.

He wraps his fingers slowly around Arthur’s throat, marvelling at how they fit so perfect. 

He feels cruel and vengeful.

He feels lost and wicked.

He feels hot and wanted.

He feels love.

Strong and terrible and new and frightening.

“Do you now?” 

He should take them away.

“Show me how much.” 

But he’s selfish.

And Arthur is, as always, so lovely.

That as he pulls him into the bedroom, Dutch feels almost powerless. A heady feeling, a not completely enjoyable one.

But Arthur

Oh. Arthur.

With his shy smile, desperate for something that they both know is wrong. Hot and willing and so so wanting.

Arthur,

Powerless against the hurricane.

Arthur.

His.

All his.

 

***

 

Naked now.

Poised.

His fingers inside him, slick wet. Stretching him. Opening him for him. While Arthur lays back on the bed, legs spread, watching him with a blush, a look of utter amazement.

No shame.

He could lose himself in this, he thinks.

If he let himself.

Control slipping.

This is a bad, bad road, he thinks as he leans up, reaches down to guide himself.

A bad one.

A good one.

Shit.

Slick and warm and oh, so tight.

Arthur’s fingers digging bruises into his shoulders as he adjusts to him. Pain registers on his face and Dutch stills, frightened by it.

“I can stop.”

He doesn’t know if that’s a lie.

“No. Don’t. Please don’t.” 

It’s too much.

But not just for Arthur.

It’s never been like this.

Something so simple, so foolish, as sex has never felt like this.

It’s terrifying.

He has to hold back. He has to.

He can’t.

With Arthur wrapped around him, long limbs trapping him down, pulling him in.

Deep, deep and slow.

A wave cresting and retreating, again and again.

He never thought he could be like this, never thought he could go slow. Never thought he could still himself, never thought…

Never thought he could,

God.

It’s too much.

There’s still blood in his mouth.

There’s a wicked scar on his soul.

But Arthur is there,

And he’s looking at him like he knows,

He knows something happened and he doesn’t care.

So much trust in him,

So much,

That when Dutch comes,

For the first time he hides his face in the curve of Arthur’s neck, and silently begs the boy to absolve him of his sins. 

If anyone can…

He waits, has to compose himself, can hear the short sharp breaths that draw ragged from his throat,

Arthur’s finger traces a circle around the nape of his neck.

Absent,

Unconscious,

All Arthur.

Dutch composes himself,

Then,

Slips out of him and slides down his body, takes him in his mouth.

Partly for the joy.

Mainly to hide his own emotion.

Too much.

To hide himself in Arthur’s pleasure.

And swallow him down as he comes, gasping and crying out, a broken jumble of words, fingers now tugging hard in his hair.

He should take them,

He thinks,

Sitting up in bed besides a sleeping Arthur.

Tomorrow. When Hosea and Bessie and Annabelle are back from wherever they’ve gotten to.

Tomorrow he’ll take them.

Protect them.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the penultimate chapter.
> 
> I've got to be honest, I'm not completely happy with how this has turned out but after two weeks of writers block and about 10 rewrites, I think this is the best I'm going to get. The end of this chapter was originally going to be a lot darker, think poor Kieran on his horse dark, but I realised,  
> Dutch has had 15 years to perfect who he is,  
> so has Colm.  
> so I scrapped about two pages and wrote this shit. 
> 
> Maybe one day I'll post a fic entitled "Shit Ruse left out of The Revenge Business."
> 
> Um, anyhoo, yes. On with the chapter, and I'm really sorry if it isn't up to much. I just...
> 
> yeah.
> 
> OH, and comments and kudos are ALWAYS welcome. Thanking you guys so much for the outpouring of love I've had already. We're nearly at the end now guys...

(15 years ago)

 

Late morning, winter sun streaming through the grime of the windows as Dutch wakes to the presence of a warm body in the bed beside him. It’s unusual, something he’s not entirely sure he likes.

Even if it is Arthur.

Maybe especially if it is Arthur.

He turns onto his side and lets his gaze trail over his sleeping form, blankets pulled up to his waist, turned on the side away from him, one arm thrown back behind him as if he went to reach for him and thought better of it.

He takes up most of the bed.

And this is it, he thinks.

This.

Arthur beside him in more ways now. In all ways now.

And what happened last night will always be the first time. Nothing before it will ever matter. 

And what happened in the day will never be spoken about.

He won’t let it ruin this.

The house is quiet. Hosea and Bessie and Annabelle gone. Arthur told him. How he’d played drunk to frustrate Hosea, how he’d tricked them into thinking he needed to go and sleep it off. How he’d come back here and waited for him.

Trickster.

But, 

He smiles to himself.

Allows himself a moment, just a few seconds, to look at him sleeping before he moves silently from the bed. He moves quickly and quietly, using a rag soaked in freezing cold water from the basin by the bed to clean himself of the remnants of their desires, dresses in silence. He’s had enough practice at it. .

Exits the bedroom while Arthur sleeps on.

He would like to stay but he can’t give himself that luxury. Not now. 

He can’t allow himself any more time. Not when things need to be done. Not when he has to plan, and think, and control, and move on.

If he lets himself…

Gives in to the overwhelming desire to lay back down besides Arthur…

No.

He goes into the small kitchen, finds Hosea’s old worn woollen jumper, a present Dutch gave to him years since, slung over the back of a chair and tugs that on, shivering slightly in the cold of the morning. 

He sits at the table. 

He lights a cigar,

Pulls the map towards him. 

And plots the next course.

 

***

 

Footsteps on the stairs alert him to Arthur’s presence and he looks up, vision slightly blurred for a second until he comes into focus. .

Leaning against the broken door frame, hair mussed, eyes sleepy lidded.

Bruises on his throat where he gripped him too tight.

Possession.

He feels his body react to the sight, tries to tamper it down, looks back to his map.

If Arthur is pissed that he didn’t stay in bed with him, he doesn’t show it.

“Mornin’ Dutch.” 

Oh

Sleep deep voice.

Dutch can’t stop himself from looking back up. And there’s silence, for such a long time that he begins to feel uncomfortable. Shocked by the notion of it.

Until Arthur speaks.

“Don’t do this, Dutch.” Softly spoken, and with so much feeling that it confuses him a moment.

“Do what?” Arthur sighs and gestures between the two of them.

“This. Regret. Don’t do it.” 

Dutch laughs, he can’t help it.

“I don’t do regret, Arthur. Regret is for catholics and whores.” He leans back in his chair, and he feels the honesty in his words. “I am a sinner. I have sinned.”

Arthur comes closer, bare feet on the dusty floor. 

How is he not cold?

“It didn’t feel like sin.” 

Closer still, until he’s in front of him and Dutch has to scrape his chair back to see him properly.

“Well, sin never does. That’s why it’s so good.” He feels Arthur’s fingers in his hair, tentative, a new found confidence. Curling now through the twisted strands. 

He looks down at the map.

“We leaving?”

Dutch closes his eyes, lulled suddenly by the simple touch.

He doesn’t think anyone has ever touched him this way.

Or maybe...maybe he just hasn’t allowed it.

“We’re moving,” He answers, “Things are getting too hot around here. Too many O’Driscolls, and you know they always bring the law down on them. I want us to lay low for a while, not be on the run constantly. We can’t do that here.”

A half lie. A litany of half truths.

He will never tell him about Connor.

But Arthur does as he always does.

He nods.

And accepts it.

“When?”

“As soon as Hosea and the girls get back.” Arthur looks to the small window, to the light slanting across the floor, and nods.

“Won’t be for a few hours yet. Hosea was hoping to score big at Blackjack, they’ll have been going til the early hours. Especially with how he talks.” 

A few hours.

Yes.

He doesn’t let himself think as he stands, gripping Arthur and pushing him roughly towards the sideboard, sending plates and cutlery flying as Arthur falls against it with an almost winded huff of breath. 

He kisses him.

Tongue and teeth and filthy wet. Gripping to the underside of his jaw to mould the kiss his way as Arthur’s cold hands snake their way under the jumper, his shirt, and onto the bare skin of his stomach.

“Shit Dutch.” 

His breathing is already ragged, more so when Dutch grips to his hand and unbuttons his own trousers in one fluid movement. 

“Shit.” A whisper now, as Dutch grips to the sideboard either side of Arthur's body, and Arthur wraps his long, calloused fingers around his cock.

There’s bruises on his knuckles, fresh new and painful looking.

He’ll ask about them later, he tells himself.

Later, 

After.

There’s silence for a while, the only sound the slick slide skin, and Dutch’s own sharp breaths loud in his ears.

And his own thoughts, jumbling together, fighting over one another for dominance as Arthur strokes him a little too slow, a little too loose.

He reaches down and puts his hand over Arthurs, fitting his fingers perfectly over his. Arthur glances up at him, eyes a little too wide.

“Harder?” 

“Mm,” He can’t speak.

He can’t trust his own voice, not any more. The fight to remain himself and standing against the hurricane that is Arthur threatens to undo him. 

But he’s no longer thinking.

At least there’s that.

He thrusts into his hand, gripping Arthur’s wrist now, head down, eyes screwed shut.

He can hear his own gasps of pleasure.

“And faster?” God.

God.

Dutch wets his lips, spreads his legs a little more, looks up and watches Arthur watch him.

“Mm.” Arthur smiles again but this time there’s something behind it, some inner working so inherently Arthur that Dutch worries he’ll never be able to figure out.

“See Dutch,” He speaking and Dutch cannot take his eyes from his mouth, from the way his lips move. “This,” He tightens his grip and Dutch hears himself moan “Tells me you’re liking it. But…”

Dutch bites his lip.

Arthur deserves more.

More than this. More than him.

He composes himself. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Slides a hand up Arthur’s chest, up and up and up until he reaches his throat, fits his hand over the already fading bruises and applies pressure. 

Takes another breath.

“I’m going to come.” He whispers, watches Arthur’s eyes go wide with surprise and then a curious fierce pride as Dutch does as he told him. Comes over his hand, his wrist. Comes with a gasp held between gritted teeth. Comes quiet, forces the violence of it down.

The world quietens, narrows down to just the two of them in the kitchen.

The world quietens,

And then all hell breaks loose.

 

***

It starts with a scream, high pitched and terrified. 

Arthur looks to him, breathing ragged from the force of his own orgasm moments before, when he had come down his throat with Dutch’s name spilling from his lips, a breathless broken sigh.

“What the hell…” 

Another scream, louder this time, 

Recognisable.

They both move quickly, grabbing guns from the table and running through the kitchen to the small outer room and from then out the door into,

“Dutch!” 

Annabelle.

“Dutch!” She screams once more.

Only once.

Before her throat is cut, and her blood sprays out onto the wet dirty ground, before she crumples, a bloody broken heap, and Colm O’Driscoll stands behind her, smiling his vulture smile.

“Happiest of mornings to you.” Arthur’s gun is out and pointing to Colm before Dutch can even focus enough to get his.

Colm flicks his eyes to Arthur.

“You’ll be dead before you even pull that trigger, pretty thing.” He spreads his arms out. “You think I came alone? I got people all over. I don’t kill people out in the open, alone.”

Dutch curls his fingers around the barrel of Arthur’s gun and gently lowers it.

“I ain’t you, Dutch Van Der Linde.” 

“No.” Dutch speaks soft, and cold. “You’re not me.”

He knows Arthur wants to ask. He can feel it.

He refuses to look at him,

And the body on the floor,

He looks to Colm.

“What do you want?” 

Colm laughs.

“I want my brother back. Think you can do that?” 

He won’t look to Arthur.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lies and lies.

But Colm just laughs and turns his back on them, walking back up the path, away.

“I thought as much. Be seeing you, Dutch.”

And he’s gone.

And Arthur moves,

Towards her.

“Don’t.” He can hear the shake in his voice now, the cracks as he speaks. “Leave her. Get Hosea.” 

Arthur turns, stalks back to him suddenly, 

Crowds him.

“Connor.” He says it so strangely quiet that the jolt of his name in his mouth after all that’s happened shocks Dutch into silence. “You killed Connor?”

“I need you to…”

“You killed his fucking brother, Dutch! When the fuck…” He turns from him, paces. “Were you even going to tell me?”

“We ain’t got time for this, Arthur. Not now.” 

“Then make time! When did you do it? Yesterday…” He rolls his head back in realisation, and Dutch, for once, doesn’t know what to do. His mind scrambles but nothing comes out. 

Annabelle.

“Yesterday. And you came back here to fuck it all away, is that it?”

No. 

Not that.

“Arthur, get Hosea.”

“No! I ain’t going anywhere until you tell me.” Oh he’s angry. More than angry. Incandescent with rage.

But Dutch doesn’t have the time. Not now.

He pushes at Arthur, hand on his chest he shoves him away.

“Get. Hosea.” 

That seems to seep through to him, or at least a little, for he moves away finally. Shoving his gun in his holster and setting off towards his horse, 

“This ain’t over Dutch, and she,” He turns and points to Annabelle. 

Dutch refuses to look.

“She deserved better.” 

 

***

 

She did deserve better. 

Better than him, better than them, better than her end.

But she chose this life, like they all did.

And so invited an ignominious death.

Still.

He kneels down beside her in the mud, hands pressed tight to the tops of his thighs so as not to reach out and touch. 

She did deserve better.

He stays like this, knelt next to her as the blood congeals and the day wears on. 

Stays until he hears hoofbeats, and the sound of a woman crying.

Stays still until he feels hands on his shoulders, 

Warm hands, comforting hands.

And Hosea crouches down next to him. 

“Come on, old friend.” Gentle voice, like the one he uses on women he’s about to con. “Arthur told us. It’s best we get moving and fast.” 

Dutch nods, lets Hosea help him to his feet.

“It’s okay you know,” Hosea wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him towards the house. “To mourn. To cry.”

He knows that.

It’s just he hasn’t shed one tear.

And he doesn’t think he will.

“Where’s Arthur?”

“Securing us a couple of wagons back in town.” Hosea stops, as if he’s going to say something and then changes it at the last minute. “He’s upset over Annabelle. We all are.” 

“I killed Connor.” He says it, finally, out loud. Hosea nods.

“So I heard. You want to tell me why?”

Oh I want to.

“He was going to kill me.” 

Lies. 

 

***

 

Fifteen years later and still Arthur doesn’t know the full truth. And still Dutch and Colm continue this war, regardless of the casualties. 

Annabelle was the first innocent.

Connor was the first mistake. 

But there were more, more to come, more to die, caught forever between the two of them.  
So it has to end.

Once and for all.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch finally confronts Colm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. It's here. The End. The confrontation.
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long. 
> 
> There's no smut, no Vandermorgan, nothing. Just Dutch and Colm, and a hell of a lot of dialogue.
> 
> I still hope you enjoy.
> 
> And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all the love and comments and kudos you have given this little fic. It has been a joy :)

(present day)

 

This time it’s not so open. No rolling plains, no back up. This time, it’s like Connor. Just the two of them, cold mountains as their backdrop. 

Colm O’Driscoll smiles wide.

“I didn’t think you’d show.” Dutch says softly, fighting the overwhelming urge to put his hands on his guns. He will not show any weakness in front of Colm. He will not show a fear he doesn’t feel. 

It is long past time for this.

“I didn’t think you had the balls to meet me alone.” Colm makes an exaggerated show of looking behind Dutch. “No Arthur?”

“It’s just the two of us.”

“Shame. I like that boy, Dutch.” Colm pulls a battered cigarette packet out of his pocket and offers him one. “Cold killer, that one. I like that in a man.” 

Dutch takes the cigarette.

Time was, they used to share one after a successful job.

“He’s too good for you.” He says as he lights the cigarette, tosses the match to the ground. He takes a drag, fills his lungs. He will not get into a discussion about Arthur.

When Arthur is involved,

It makes him weak.

They smoke in silence a while, the breeze rustling the trees. 

Dutch looks to Colm.

There is nothing of Connor in him. Nothing at all. Almost as if they weren’t blood. But Dutch knows enough about Pa O’Driscoll to know that ain’t true.

Still.

“Did you just call me out here for a friendly talk? Maybe reminisce about old times?” Colm looks as he always does, unruffled and unconcerned. 

Dutch wonders if he has to fight as hard as him to make that appearance so.

“This needs to end, Colm.” He says it softly, calmly, controlled. “This whole feud between us? It’s gone on too long, and we are too old for it.” 

“Speak for yourself, Van Der Linde. I got a lot of hating left to do, and we ain’t as old as you think.”

It will never end.

He has to try.

Tamper the anger. The rage in Arthur’s kidnap. In his own stupidity in letting it happen. 

“Arthur, he has nothing to do with this.” 

Colm smiles. 

Vulture.

“Oh, Dutch, I think he has everything to do with this.”

A sharp current of fear runs through Dutch then, through his blood, his liver, his heart, his head. He forces his expression neutral, he emphasises ignorance.

“That boy is like a son to me.” 

Pretence.

It has to be, to live in this world.

“Is that what you call it?” Colm crushes his cigarette beneath pointed boots and shakes his head exaggeratedly, “Because from what I can see, you been taking more privileges than a father would.” 

The fear reaches its peak.

But when it does, as it always does, it runs him cold.

“I’m warning you.” No shake in his voice. Good.

“Are you now?” Colm laughs. “And here I am, so scared.”

That brings him back, makes him laugh. Oh, keep speaking like that and you’ll make it easy.

“You are scared. You’ve been running scared for years Colm. You fear me.” Colm blanches,

He’s not as good as Dutch.

“My boys could have killed him in a second, you know, only waiting for my say so.” 

“You’ve never been able to catch up to me, and you never will. You ain’t got ‘boys’, you got lackeys and fools, degenerates and murderers. I’ve got family.” 

Silence.

Then Colm snarls.

“I had family. A brother, remember him? A brother that you murdered.” 

Red hair, green eyes, strong and vital and broken. 

Dutch doesn’t let his voice soften.

“I remember him.” 

He says.

“And I’m sorry.”

And Colm laughs.

“You ain’t sorry, but I already forgave you Dutch.” Colm’s hands find his pockets, his stance relaxes, he’s getting into his pace now. 

Dutch knows to be more wary than ever.

“I’d have killed him anyway, eventually.”

He would, as well.

“Then you’re a bigger shit than I thought you were.” 

A hand on his heart and Colm staggers back.

“Ouch. And your opinion means so much to me as well.” 

If there’s one thing Dutch can’t stand, it’s this. Cockiness and lies. 

“If this doesn’t end, I will kill you.”

“You’ve already tried.”

Yes.

But.

“Not hard enough.”

Truth.

“Or maybe you just don’t want it enough.” The wind is whipping up, coming down from the mountains. A cold wind, obscuring all other sounds. “Did the fight go out of you, Dutch, when you killed my brother in cold blood?”

He can’t hear anything but the two of them.

He shouts to be heard.

“He killed himself, you goddamn fool!” 

Colm takes a step closer, and Dutch forces himself to stand still. 

Another step.

“Oh I know it. I saw it. You ain’t as quick with your gun as you think you are.” Confirmation of a thing he suspected, a weight removed.

Colm is almost too close now, he can smell the stench on him, whiskey and sweat and something lurking.

“But you haven’t told anyone, have you? Haven’t let that dirty little secret go, kept it all close and cuddled up to your big broad chest. Puffed up about it, big bad Dutch Van Der Linde, killer of the O’Driscolls. So, under god and man, you killed my brother, and you let the world know.”

Logic.

And a truth Dutch never suspected Colm would figure out.

But it’s not the whole truth. Nothing ever is. From him or Colm.

Dutch tilts his head to the side and looks him over.

“And if you’ve known, all these years, that I didn’t kill him,” 

He still won’t admit the whole truth.

“Why did you kill Annabelle?”

And Colm smiles again, cruel. Crueler than he thought possible.

“To watch you pretend to mourn.” Colm licks his lips and Dutch feels a shudder of revulsion. “Oh, it was delicious. Pretending that you gave a shit about that girl, because the truth of it is so much worse. Watching you lie. Watching you run scared of confrontation in case anyone found out.”

Colm sighs, happy.

And Dutch has underestimated him again.

“That was my favourite kind of game.”

“I cared about her.”

Small truth.

Not enough.

“You care about yourself Dutch Van Der Linde, and no-one else. We ain’t so different.” 

It’s Dutch’s turn to smile, to give that cruel rictus grin, to feel superior.

“We are nothing alike, you and I.” He takes a step back, “And this will never end. I had hoped you had more sense in you, I had hoped you would think of the bigger picture. But you continue to run your games, your little empire, and you will fall. But I don’t care to be the one to topple it.”

This was a mistake. 

There is no reasoning with an O’Driscoll.

Connor taught him that.

He turns to go.

“You killed my brother!” Raised voice, almost high pitched, Dutch stops mid-step. “You fucked my brother. You broke him, and he betrayed me! He was useless to me after you. Worse than useless, an abomination. A freak and a pansy and a liar. You killed my brother before he died.”

And the righteous anger floods in.

Oh, it feels good.

It’s not that he really cared, it’s not that at all.

But any chance to score a point against Colm, and perhaps, yes, they are not so different. 

“Connor.” He steps towards Colm, taller than him he uses his height to crowd him. “His name was Connor.”

“I know what his name was.” There’s an expression on Colm’s face that Dutch reads well, and knows how to use. To push just enough.

“Then why don’t you ever use it?” 

“Because he’s nothing to me.”

Dutch can’t help but laugh.

“You’re mourning him fifteen years later. You’ve pitted yourself against me all this time. You care, and you care too much. It hurts, don’t it Colm, to know he loved me more than you.”

And Colm snaps.

It’s not dignified, the fight that ensues.

Not a gun fight, not a fight with words, but a fist fight.

Dirty, uncouth, two ragged orphan boys on a street kind of fight.

Fifteen years of hatred and lies and festering rage.

Scrabbling, Dutch gets the upper hand, fingers wrapped in Colms hair, fist balled and striking.

This is how Arthur fights, he thinks.

This is how Arthur feels.

 

A sick kind of joy.

His knuckles hurt, connecting with bone.

How many times has he seen Arthur with bruised knuckles like this?

Colm pushes at him, gets a knee up and connects with his inner thigh and Dutch falls back, grappling in the dirt and it’s Colms turn to hit out, Colm’s turn to split his lip, Colm’s turn to tower over him,

As Dutch lays on his back, 

And hands circle his throat,

And he thinks he hears a sound, through the rushing in his ears, as he rakes a hand down Colm’s face, blood under his nails.

A sound.

Yes.

Colm looks up and laughs, hard and breathless, spit onto his face.

“You brought your boy, I see? Too scared to fight me proper.” Dutch pushes Colm off him and stands, spitting blood to the floor.

He sees him,

Arthur.

Rifle in hand, trained on Colm.

“Make one more fucking move and I put a hole in your head.” 

Colm stands, arms up.

“You wouldn’t kill me boy.” 

Arthur stands his ground.

“Get gone.”

Colm looks to Dutch, a long last second, full of hatred and bile, and it will never, ever end until one of them is on the end of a noose.

And then Colm is gone, 

And the wind settles.

He wants to be angry that Arthur is here, oh he wants that righteous anger, but his first thought is shame.

Shame of weakness in front of a lover.

He can’t stand it.

It’s easier to fall in front of a hundred people he doesn't know, then to have Arthur see him here in the dirt, split lip still bleeding, clothes ripped and muddied, a disgrace.

“I told you not to come.” 

Arthur settles his gun on his back and looks at him,

“If I remember rightly, you asked me, didn’t tell me.” 

Dutch wants to argue, and he will later, but not now. 

Not as Arthur’s arm comes up under his, settles it along his back and lets him use his strength to walk.

“Did this entire farce help any?” Arthur murmurs as Dutch hoists himself up onto The Count. “Is it all settled now? Do we have to invite them round for a fancy meal?”

“Don’t be facetious Arthur.” He’s weary, and Arthur is angry.

“You’re a goddamn fool, Dutch. I’m going back to camp. I expect you’ll do whatever the hell you want.” He turns away, to his own horse, to ride back and leave him.

Dutch closes his eyes, faces away from Arthur and speaks.

“Please,” The words stick but he forces them out. “Just stay.”

“Are you asking me or telling me Dutch?”

A short laugh, from either of them.

“Telling you.” 

Arthur moves beside him, and he knows he’s looking but Dutch can’t face him just yet. He has to think, think through the bits he left out, think through the lies he told. Think about Connor.

He has to be honest with Arthur, in this. 

“Sure.” Arthur shakes his head, and spurs his horse on. “You goddamn fool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue...


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch sits, alone, and thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The end. 
> 
> This story has been a joy, and the love you've given it has been overwhelming! Thank you for all of the comments, art, discussions and kudos! 
> 
> I will miss this.

Epilogue

 

(15 years ago)  
(Some months later)

 

A darkened room, a book all but forgotten in his lap, an almost empty bottle of whiskey at his side, ashtray full to bursting with cigarette ends, cigar butts. 

Dutch sits alone.

Hosea’s gone. He’s taken Bessie and gone. Said she can’t live with them any more, not after Annabelle, not with a man so unstable as Dutch is. Wild spirit. Dangerous man.

She can’t live with them anymore?

She can’t live with him.

Hosea gone. Although they still speak, still make sure to meet when Bessie doesn’t know. What the two of them have is forever, and she will know that. Eventually.

Hosea gone, Bessie gone.

Arthur.

Gone. 

Oh, he stays with Dutch, in the little farmhouse they raided when they escaped Colm. He stays, eats, does jobs that need doing, spends as much time away from Dutch as humanly possible.

He won’t come to him.

He won’t come to his bed.

He barely even talks to him.

“He’ll never forgive you.” Connor said that, before the bullet took his brain and sent it spewing into the wind. He meant Colm, of course. He didn’t mean Arthur, how could he have? But still, it seems like his words were prophetic.

He hasn’t forgiven him.

Maybe he never will.

He comes back some mornings, stinking of cheap whiskey and cheaper whores. And it takes all there is in Dutch not to call him out on it. Not anymore.

In the beginning, yes.

He tried.

But Arthur, when he’s angry, there’s no talking to him. And Dutch’s own anger, own jealous rages, they won’t help.

If he could make him come back, he would.

He would. 

So, instead, he sits alone, whiskey at his side, book on his lap.

Sometimes, bad times, he thinks about Connor. Thinks about what he should have done differently. Thinks if he had to do it again...would he change anything.

And he knows,

Lord, he knows,

That being alone is a bad thing for Dutch Van Der Linde.

Alone is when the thoughts creep in. Alone is when the doubts surface. Alone is where the fear starts.

 

***

 

He’s falling asleep, whiskey induced, when he hears footsteps outside. He stands, grips the handle of his gun. Arthur left three days ago, a not unusual occurrence now, and he’s not expecting him back. The paranoia seeps in, when he’s alone, and he’s wide awake now as he goes to the door, turns the handle, points the gun.

The attack happens quickly, too quickly for his alcohol sodden mind to catch up with.

Hands press to his shoulders and push him back.

Lips, chapped and nervous bitten, press roughly against his.

His back hits the wall, a leg shoved hard between his.

Arthur wraps a hand around his throat and devours him.

And Dutch lets him,

Overwhelmed.

For a moment.

Before he shoves him back, both hands to Arthurs chest, he pushes him, violent. And he watches as Arthur stumbles, grips to the back of Dutch’s abandoned chair to right himself. He’s not drunk, that he can see. He’s wide eyed and sober. 

“Dutch.” His name from that mouth in that voice will never fail to make him hard.

He swallows, and lets the righteous anger in.

And Arthur smiles, and it’s not a good smile.

When he advances, the second time, Dutch doesn’t stop him.

He doesn’t want to stop him.

Lord god, he’s missed him.

He turns when pushed, allows Arthur to shove him back up against the wall, next to the door, unlocked still so that anyone could walk in. 

Cold air against his backside as Arthur yanks down his trousers and underwear in one hurried, violent move.

Dutch hangs his head and spreads his legs.

The sound of a belt buckle clanging to the floor is impossibly loud in the silence that ensues. The goddamn awful silence of two men about to do something they know they shouldn’t do. Something done in rage and pain and heartache. 

A tin lid clattering besides the belt is an echo.

Fingers, wet, circle.

Arthur’s breaths pant against his ear.

He’s afraid.

Are they both afraid?

No.

Two fingers push in and Dutch hears himself cry out, a sound he couldn’t have stopped even if he tried. He reaches up, grips to the top of the door frame as Arthur thrusts those fingers inside him, opens him rough.

Rough,

But with skill.

And Dutch turns to look, can see Arthur’s head is lowered, looking down in concentration, hair falling over his eyes.

“Not only women then?” He can hear the accusation in his voice, and Arthur’s head comes up as his fingers pull out.

“Dutch.” He says softly, too softly, as he angles himself, pushes the head of his cock in,

“I been fucking anyone who ain’t you.” 

Dutch keens, the fingers gripping to the doorframe turning white as he tries to catch his breath against the intrusion.

The agonising pleasure.

“Trying to get you out of my goddamn mind.” 

Dutch closes his eyes, grits his teeth.

“If you fuck another man after this,” He drops his head back, feels the rough plaster of the wall scrape against his cock. “I’ll kill you Arthur.” He hears him take a shaky breath behind him,

And then thrust hard.

Oh, god.

God.

White knuckles on the door frame, his other hand gripping the one around his waist. He thinks he might be sick, the pleasure and the pain too much. He wants it to end. 

He never wants it to stop.

It’s been a long time,  
Years,

Since he’s allowed anyone to do this to him. 

Allowed himself the pleasure, the sickness inside, the need and the joy and the pain. 

Years on years, since he succumbed to the desire.

And yet,

God, 

Oh god,

Never had it felt like this. 

Arthur fucking out his anger, his rage, his frustrations. Hard, and rough, and fast, thick cock brushing against that part inside him on every goddamn push,

Biting kisses on his neck.

“Don’t stop, just…” Arthur’s hand joins his on the doorframe, leverage.

Dutch drops his head back against his shoulder, his legs weak, his body betraying him with shakes, and shudders and trembles.

“Arthur,” Faster, snaps of his hips, chasing the edge, the fire. “I need..”

“You need me.” Arthur murmurs against his ear, sweat slick hair sticking to Dutch’s cheek. “You need me like I need you and I fucking hate you sometimes,” His words,

His anger.

“I hate you.”

He says again.

“I love you.”

He fires back. 

And, 

Yes, he can admit it. Here, in this position, with this man inside him. A position he’s rarely allowed himself in. A position not always of his choosing, he admits it. The first time.

And Arthur growls behind him, a strange sound, an aborted cry, a sob, as he comes inside him, fills him.

Fills.

It takes longer for Dutch to come. The anger replaced with something else. Something new and fragile and delicate. It takes him longer, almost as if he won’t be able to, almost as if…

But he lets himself, this time.

Lets Arthur stroke him, languid and lazy now against that wall, bites the back of his neck as he comes.

Turns the predator into prey.

Dutch closes his eyes. 

No, this won’t happen often.

The pleasure is too much.

 

***

Later, in his bedroom, sat up against the headboard as Arthur leans against the window, dressed only in his trousers, bare chest still sticky with sweat.

Untouchable now.

“Was I, uh…” He looks away from Dutch, out the window, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Did I hurt you?”

Yes.

“No.” Dutch can feel him still, an ache that will never end.

“I’m sorry Dutch.” Arthur rolls his eyes skyward, “You just, you drive me goddamn crazy.”

“You weren’t the first.” He admits, looks away. “And you certainly weren’t the roughest.” He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, and how he wants to ask,

So he changes the subject.

“This.” He says, gestures between the two of them. “What we have? There has to be some rules.”

Arthur nods, and comes to the bed.

“Okay Dutch.”

So,

And so.

 

***

 

Two days later Hosea appears, out of breath and arms flailing. Dutch looks up from his meagre breakfast, and glances to Arthur who grins at him over his coffee cup.

“Dutch! There’s something in town you’ll want to see.” Dutch leans back, wipes his lips on a handkerchief.

“Josiah, isn’t it? No, sorry, Joseah? Well, well long time no speak.” He grins at his little joke, at Hosea rolling his eyes.

“I’ve missed you too Dutch, but we don’t have time. There’s a boy, in town,” Hosea gestures with one hand behind him, throwing a gun to Dutch with the other. “They’re going to hang him. He can’t be more than 11, 12? Scrawny little thing.”

Oh, Hosea knows him too, too well.

Hang a boy. A child? 

Monsters.

“You got a rifle Arthur?” He asks over his shoulder as he follows Hosea out into the sun.

“‘Course.” 

He jumps up onto Xanthus, saddled and ready, Hosea at his side now.

“Good.” He says, draws a breath and lets the anger in.

“Bring it.”


End file.
